


One Last Time

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26495713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By Rune Dancer.A romantic fic tracing Haldir and Gildor's entire relationship.
Relationships: Haldir of Lothlórien/Gildor Inglorion
Kudos: 1
Collections: Least Expected





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the plotline. Even Gildor Inglorion isn't mine--Tolkien had him first.  
> Warnings: None except that it's slash. A faithful reviewer, Melanie, asked so nicely for this that I couldn't refuse. For anyone familiar with my previous work, this has a very different tone. Melanie wanted a tender, romantic little fic that discussed Gildor's and Haldir's relationship, so that's what this is.  
> Archiving: OLAS and anyone else who wants it, just let me know.  
> A/N: This is a continuation of my previous Unspoken story arc ([Unspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497804)/[Revelations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497255)/[Changes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497078).)

Third Age, year 180: Imladris 

Haldir's rooms were reached with much laughter and some shortness of breath, as they had run all the way from the stables through the main hall and up the stairs. The chamber was cool, with no fire in the grate and with a rain scented breeze blowing in from the balcony, but neither cared as they tumbled onto the large bed. Gildor lay back against the pillows and watched as Haldir hurried about, gathering things. His soon-to-be lover seemed intent on rather lengthy preparations, a fact that amused and yet charmed Gildor. Haldir was obviously intent on taking his time, but then, he had always been thorough at everything. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: Lothlorien 

Gildor sat on his russet mare and stared in awe at his first sight of fabled Lorien. He knew his companions were probably laughing at him, but then, they had done so the whole trip; it was something to which he was becoming accustomed. Barely passed his majority, at only 64, Gildor could get away with staring unashamedly, and he took advantage of that fact as the party rode further into the Golden Wood. In his opinion, Lorien deserved an openmouthed stare. 

It was not just the beauty of the mallyrn, which increased the further into Lorien they went, but rather the melodious song that seemed always just out of hearing, that delighted Gildor. He could catch an echo of it, a tantalising trill here and there, but strain as he might, the whole continued to elude him. The song stopped after they had ridden a short way into the wood, and the forest suddenly seemed eerily quiet as a result. Gildor could tell that the trees were saying something, but he could not understand them. Looking at his companions, all of whom were far older, he saw that it was not his lack of years that was responsible; they looked no more enlightened. He would have liked to tease Tuor, the leader of their group, about it, as he had been relentless in his mockery of Gildor since they set out from Imladris several days before. However, considering the elf's famous temper, he refrained. 

As he was still contemplating what he would have said, if he had been unwise enough to do so, three elves suddenly appeared and blocked their path forward. Their arrival seemed almost magical, for Gildor had heard and seen nothing of their approach. Having undergone special training to learn how to move as silently as the fog, and to listen and observe even the smallest indication of life, he was truly impressed. 

The leader of the group stepped forward, while the others kept back. The bows of all three were drawn but, for the moment, remained lowered. Gildor observed the extremely fine weapon in the hands of the leader with appreciation. It was a beautiful thing, carved of some light coloured wood he had not seen before, but assumed might be that of the mallyrn as it had the same silvery sheen to it. There were runish designs climbing up the sides, carved by a master, and the whole seemed almost an extension of the hand that wielded it. A very attractive hand, Gildor noticed, long fingered and ivory fair, attached to an equally beautiful arm, all slender muscles under perfect skin, leading to a very pretty face. A face, he noticed now, with a slight smile curving its exquisite lips and an amused glint in its slightly slanted, sapphire eyes. Gildor blushed and looked away, ashamed to have been caught staring yet again. He was supposed, after all his training, to be able to observe everything at a glance, and to see without seeming to do so. He could manage the trick when he was concentrating, but otherwise had found it hard to pretend a fashionable indifference to the many new sights of their journey. 

The object of Gildor's admiration seemed to also be the leader of the Lorien elves, for so their grey attire and blond, Silvan beauty proclaimed them. He spoke to Tuor in slightly accented Sindarin as Gildor resumed gazing at him--after all, he now had an excuse. "What would four elves, from Imladris by their clothing, be doing wandering so loudly through the Golden Wood?" 

Tuor narrowed his grey eyes but kept his temper in check, Gildor saw with relief. "I am Tuor, of Imladris as you say. These with me are Valandil and Aikanaro, and the young one is called Gildor. We come at the command of Lord Elrond, to speak with the Lord and Lady of these woods. If you will be so good as to lead us to them, brother, we will cease to wander about, loudly or otherwise." 

Gildor winced slightly at the haughtiness in Tuor's tone, but the Lorien elf merely arched a brow in what looked like amusement. "If you speak truly, and it is in peace you come, then you will not mind leaving your weapons behind?" At Tuor's outraged look, the elf merely smiled broader. "They will, of course, be cared for and brought along presently." 

"We are kin, not . . . not dwarves . . . to be so ill treated!" 

"You are strangers here and heavily armed." The Galadrim widened his eyes in a parody of innocence. "I would be remiss to allow you to proceed further unless you comply. Though, since you are kin, I will let you to leave unmolested if you refuse." 

Before Tuor could reply, Valandil took off his bow and quiver and handed them to the elf beside him. Jumping lightly to the ground, he walked forward, pulling out his twin daggers which he offered, handles first, to the Galadrim leader, who took them with an slight smile and tucked them in his belt. Valendil then held out his arms in a posture to allow a search, should it be required. The elf seemed to find something amusing in Valandil's actions, but he did not decline the right to search him, as Gildor had half expected. He made quick work of it, however, and Valandil then remounted his horse and looked expectantly at Tuor. 

Their mission leader still seemed inclined to argue, but Aikanaro quickly followed his father's lead and Valandil made a slight motion of his head in Gildor's direction to indicate that he should do likewise. Before Aikanaro had even finished remounting, then, Gildor slid from his horse and stepped forward, presenting his weapons to the elf nearest him as he did so. He smiled to see the appraising glance given his knives by the Silvan--they had been his father's and seen combat in the Last Alliance, a long ago gift from Gil-Galad himself. They were Gildor's most prized possession, and he sincerely hoped no harm would come to them. 

Stepping forward, he presented himself to be searched, and did his best to conceal the nervousness he felt when those elegant hands slid over his body. It was over in a few seconds, and all eyes turned to Tuor as Gildor remounted. With a disgusted sound, Tuor all but threw his weapons at one of the watching elves, then marched up to the leader with a challenging look on his face. Gildor felt uneasy, as it reminded him a little of the way Tuor looked when he was about to teach him yet another uncomfortable lesson. He had worn that expression the previous night, when he challenged Gildor to a wrestling match, then attacked before he had time to ready himself. "You must always be alert in combat," Gildor had been told, as his face was ground soundly into the dirt, "an enemy will not wait for permission to attack you!" He had known it was true, but had also been aware that Tuor enjoyed teaching that lesson more than he should have done. He hoped he wasn't planning to try to offer the Lorien elf any similar instruction, as besting one of the Galadrim might not be diplomatically wise. 

The elf quickly patted Tuor down, seeming to take no more time with him than with the others, and then, apparently satisfied, addressed the company. "The Lady foresaw your coming, and bids you welcome. I am Haldir and these are Feanaro and Amros. Come this way." Gildor saw, too late to do anything about it, the look of rage that flooded Tuor's face with the knowledge that they had been subjected to such indignity, even thought their coming was expected. Before Gildor could even cry out a warning, Tuor had reached into the specially made lining of his boot and extracted a tiny dagger; Valandil launched himself off his horse at the two elves, just as Tuor lunged for the Galadrim's leader. In a blur of motion too fast for Gildor to follow, the Lorien elf had somehow pinned Tuor to the ground with his boot on his neck, and plucked the little knife from his hand. Gildor had the strange impression that the Galadrim had known about the hidden stiletto all the time, but left it to see what Tuor would do. It seemed a foolhardy action, but there was no other way to explain the rapidity of his response except that he had expected the attack. 

Seeing that Tuor was in no immediate danger, Valandil stopped short, and held up a hand as if to warn his two companions to be still. Gildor needed no such caution, as he was still frozen in place, staring in shock at the great Tuor, one of the best warriors in Imladris, laying sprawled on the ground like an raw elfling. Haldir added to the insult by standing almost casually, as though it required little effort to keep his victim pinned. However, Gildor could see from Tuor's expression that a good deal of force must have been being applied. 

"It's a good blade," the elf commented, looking over the little dagger with apparent appreciation. "Mithril inlay, too--you should be more careful with such a prize, else someday you may lose it." He tucked it into the sash at his waist along with Valandil's weapons, then allowed Tuor to rise. "Never fear, I shall return it to you once you have seen the Lord and Lady. No one but the Galadrim take weapons into their presence." He then turned and, with no more concern than he had shown before the attempted attack, proceeded to lead them in the direction of Caras Galadhon. 

Gildor followed behind the Galadrim, trying to force his attention to what Tuor and Valandil were saying in low tones to each other, both out of curiosity and because he might later be quizzed about it. The oldest of them all, Valandil was usually also the kindest, but he was very insistent on improving Gildor's skills, having acted as his tutor in espionage since he joined Lord Elrond's agents just after his coming of age. Valandil constantly told him that he had skill, but lacked concentration. He was certainly proving the latter assertion true at the moment, for he could not focus on his companion's words with the golden elf in front of him as a distraction. 

As the party climbed higher towards Caras Galadhon, Gildor ignored the increasing size and magnificence of the mallyrn and the lushness of the forest in favour of studying the most beautiful elf he had ever seen. The sunlight filtering through the leaves dappled the whole scene in gold, but with deep green shadows cast by the larger trees. Gildor couldn't decide if he preferred the elf when sunlight was glinting off his hair and gilding his fair skin, or the way shadow allowed his high cheekbones to stand out and lent a mysterious air to his graceful movements. This one walked like a prince, and had a haughty carriage that made his casual Galadrim attire seem like robes of state. He must be of good family, Gildor thought, and probably came of wealth, too. The mithril hair ornament clipped casually into his elaborately done braids would be worth many times what a simple border guard could possibly earn in a year, making Gildor wonder why he was one. Perhaps, he thought in some excitement, it had been a gift, and he was as poor otherwise as Gildor himself; if that was true, perhaps they could become friends, if their party tarried long enough in Lorien. Gildor, as the least experienced of the group, had not been privy to details of their instructions; all he knew was that they sought something in Thranduil's realm and had been sent to Lorien first to seek the advice of those who had long kept an eye on darkest Mirkwood. How long this consultation might take, he did not know, but found himself hoping that they would tarry in Lorien a very long time indeed. 

* * *

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Haldir finally completed his preparations and, crawling across the bed to straddle Gildor, smiled wickedly at him while fingering the old fabric of his tunic. "I have half a mind to cut you out of this, for then I would have an excuse to replace it." He slid the cool edge of a knife along Gildor's sleeve as he spoke, stopping to toy with the leather ties at the front of his tunic. "This . . . . stuff," he used the tip of the knife to contemptuously flick a bit of the knobby fabric, "next to your skin offends me. You should be in a much finer weave, something worthy of such beauty." He ran the knife in a seemingly careless way down Gildor's chest, but, although the fabric parted easily, no mark was seen on the pale skin below. "Have you always worn such clothing?," he asked, cutting the tunic the rest of the way from his companion's form. 

Gildor smiled up at him lovingly, "Oh, no. I remember one outfit of which I am positive you would approve." 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: Lothlorien 

The scene before Gildor was unlike any he had seen. The great market day at Calas Galadhon occurred only once a month, when elves from all over fair Lorien came to laugh and talk, trade and bargain. Gildor wandered among the seemingly endless stalls, happily munching a leaf wrapped meat pastry in one hand, while he took occasional sips from a flagon of watered wine that he held in the other. He did not think he would ever tire of perusing the intriguing wares on display. There were mounds of all types of vegetables and fruits, stalls selling smoked meats and cheeses, and others with barrels and bottles of fine wines. Jewelers displayed everything from trinkets to jewels of great price; wood carvers had pipes and flutes, bowls and tankards, engraved with alien designs; leather workers offered fine tooled scabbards, quivers and belts; and one stall had the funniest boots Gildor had ever seen--they were made of suede and soft, supple leather, but were every hue of the rainbow and embroidered, of all things, like a maiden's dress! He spent a few moments in fascinated disbelief, staring at a bright purple pair with niphrodil embroidered all over them and with gilded heels. 

Lost in contemplation of some crystal sun catchers a short while later, Gildor accidentally spilled a bit of wine down his tunic front, which was already less than pristine, and a pretty maiden called to him, fluttering a bright cloth in the late morning breeze. She laughed at his predicament, but not unkindly. "Now you'll have to have a new one, cousin!," she told him, and began to pile heaps of gorgeous tunics, sashes and robes onto the table nearest him from overfilled baskets behind her. 

Gildor smiled and approached her wares, but knew he had nothing to trade. His needs were met at Imladris, where Lord Elrond had agreed to train him out of respect for his father, who had fought at his side in the Last Alliance. Here, however, he would need gold or something of value to exchange for any goods, and Gildor had never had money of his own. If he succeeded on this assignment he might begin to get small tasks which would bring payment, although none were likely to come his way for many years that would fetch very much. At the moment, however, as he was considered to still be in training, he earned nothing, and his parents could not afford to send him anything. Certainly, it would be centuries before he could afford clothes as beautiful as these, for he could see that the tales he had heard of the skill of Lorien weavers had not been exaggerated. 

The maiden, sensing a sale, was pressing a deep burnt orange tunic on him. Gildor had no hands left with which to fend her off, and could therefore not keep her from draping the cloth over the front of his own stained garment. "It will go well with your dark hair," she insisted, and held up a polished glass so that he might see. Gildor was wondering where he could put his pastry or drink that would not stain her wares, needing to free a hand to return her offering, when he glanced into the mirror she had now shoved within a foot of his face. He stopped, seeing in surprise that the Galadrim Haldir was standing behind him, his thoughtful expression reflected in the mirror's bright face. 

"She's right, you know, and that colour compliments your complexion as well." Haldir relieved him of the food items he carried, which he then deftly passed to the maiden. Pulling off Gildor's old tunic in one swift motion, he tugged the other over his head before he could protest. The material was as strong as the rougher woolen he had been wearing, but was light as silk. The weave was so fine that it was almost invisible, and it was banded by some of the cleverest embroidery he had ever seen, with brown, gold and light orange leaves and flowers twining in intricate shapes along the neckline, hem and cuffs. As he gazed at it wonderingly, he saw that little animals were inserted haphazardly throughout the pattern--here a fox stuck its nose out from behind a flower petal, there a butterfly hovered lightly as if about to drink. It was by far the most beautiful garment he had ever seen, and was also, of course, completely out of the question. 

"Yes," the border guard commented, standing back to look him up and down, "you look very well in that." He suddenly leaned forward and ran a hand along Gildor's rather messy braids. "But someone needs to teach you how to care for your hair, elfling!" He laughed and turned to the maiden, who was now looking smugly sure of a sale. "He'll take it," he told her, and she dimpled at him while fluttering long lashes. 

"He does look well," she said, but her bright gaze stayed on the guard. Gildor didn't blame her, as he had difficulty remembering not to stare himself. He was even more handsome than Gildor remembered, wearing not his Galadrim clothes, but a fine garment of what looked like silk, in a blue to match his eyes. 

Tearing his attention away from the Galadrim, Gildor turned to address the maid, who was busily tying up his old clothes into a small bundle, apparently assuming that he would wear the new tunic. "I . . . it is beautiful, truly," he told her, trying not to appear as embarrassed as he felt. "But I really can't . . . " 

The guard picked up the package with Gildor's stained clothing in it and handed it to him. "You would refuse my gift then, brother? I had heard that Imladris elves were more polite." 

"Gift? But I don't . . ." 

"Is it not the habit of your people, to give strangers in their lands, especially kin, food and shelter, and then gifts on their departure?" 

"Well, yes, but . . . that is, Lord Elrond does these things, but he is master of Imladris and . . . " 

"Then he may do what my Lord Celeborn cannot?" 

Gildor looked about, a little fearfully. Lord Celeborn? He had not been privileged to attend the meeting between the Lords of Lorien and Tuor the previous night, and so had yet to see their host, but from the way this guard talked, it sounded as if the Lord wished to honour him with a handsome present. Gildor did not see anyone in the crowd who looked as if they might be the famed Lord of Lorien, and could not imagine why he would take any interest in such an insignificant person as himself in the first place. "Lord Celeborn . . . wishes me to have this?" 

The guard shrugged and handed over what seemed a large amount of silver to the maiden, without asking the price. "I was told to look after the honoured guests from Lorien, and to show them every consideration. But you would shame me before my Lord by refusing to accept the courtesy of the Golden Wood. How have I wronged you, that you would do me such a disservice?" 

Gildor might have been worried about the guard's words except that his tone was light, and he was paying no attention to Gildor as he spoke, but was busy flirting with the maiden. Gildor stood there feeling ridiculous as Haldir reminded her of some assignation they had agreed upon for that evening. "If you sold twelve by noon you said, Idril," he laughed, taking her hand, which was still clutched about his silver, and raising it to his lips. "And look, the sun stands just before the peak. If I have counted correctly, this means you are mine this night!" 

She giggled, and swatted at him with a sash. "I should have said, if I sell twelve to aught but Haldir o' Lorien!" 

"Ah," he smiled devilishly, "but then, fair maiden, I would have scoured the whole of the woods for those in search of the finest of garments . . . and dragged them here by the scruff of their necks if need be!" 

The two had apparently forgotten Gildor's existence, but he remained anyway, blushing despite himself at some of the comments Haldir made to the "maiden," who, if she was one in truth, would likely be so no more by the dawn. The conversation only ended when the savvy elf noted another customer looking with interest at a dark blue robe, and turned away to work her charms on him. Haldir walked off singing softly to himself, not even glancing in Gildor's direction, who watched him as he disappeared into the crowd, his hand running over the silky fabric of his tunic in wonder.


	2. 2

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

The leggings followed the tunic into a shredded heap by the bed, and Gildor lay exposed to Haldir's concentrated gaze. Considering what they'd already done in the cabin, Gildor didn't know why he was so nervous as those hot eyes swept over him, but he felt himself going red nonetheless. It was always his lot to be blushing around Haldir, although at least this time it was the attention paid to himself that was cause. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: Lorien 

Gildor was having a very bad night. For one thing, he kept expecting to fall off his talan at any moment, as, unlike the sensible balconies of Imladris, these had no railings. Every time he almost fell asleep, he felt himself sliding in one direction or the other, and woke up, clutching desperately at the wood under his hands. He could swear the things were slanted downwards, as no position in which he arranged himself was at all satisfactory. 

Another problem was the noisy party going on beneath him, and throughout much of Caras Galadhon, that night. The festivities seemed to be a natural part of the market day tradition, and Gildor had fully enjoyed them, up to a point. He and Aikanaro had been set free to amuse themselves as their elders were off somewhere in another meeting with the Lords of Lorien. The two younger elves wandered about from party to party, as virtually every tree and glade seemed to have their own personal festival going on, to which all comers were welcomed with mead and wine, bread and fruit, and only asked to contribute a story or song in return. 

Lanterns had been hung in the lower branches of the trees, and well tended fires burned brightly here and there, around which happy revelers sang and danced. Aikanaro had soon met up with some old friends, and, feeling a bit out of place, Gildor wandered off on his own. Not yet quite ready for bed, he took a walk amongst the darker glades farther from the city center, finding a strange beauty in the Lorien night. Few stars were visible, as the trees grew thick at the heart of the Golden Wood, but the mallyrn seemed to exude a dim glow all their own, giving light enough to see by. It had allowed him to make the discovery that was the third reason he was finding it impossible to sleep. 

In a dark meadow far from the night's revelry, Tuor of Imladris lay, once again, face down on the ground at Haldir's feet. "Let me up, you infernal . . . I'll have your position for this, and your head!" 

Haldir laughed, a sweet sound that echoed through the forest almost like a song. "Oh, not my position, I think, cousin, although feel free to try, but the other . . . well, if you ask nicely, we may be able to arrange something." 

"So you're debauched as well as dangerous!," Tuor spat, twisting around in a futile effort to free himself. 

Haldir gracefully sank to the ground, straddling his captive's thighs and running an appreciative hand over his firm bottom. "Debauched and dangerous," he mused, inserting a finger just under the top of Tuor's leggings and beginning to softly stroke the skin of his lower back. "I rather like the sound of that. Perhaps you would be so good as to spread the tale about? It would do me no end of good in certain quarters." 

"I'll spread you about, in little pieces all over this glade!," was the reply, and Gildor saw with alarm that Tuor's hand had almost reached the knife on his belt. Haldir observed the motion, however--indeed, from his lazy action in removing the scabbard and tossing it several yards away, it might almost be thought he had expected it. 

"No blades. Not this time," he told Tuor, with less amusement in his tone. "I do not know what rules there be at Imladris, but here, kin do not slay kin." 

"I would not slay you, you stupid elf!," was the reply. "just teach you how to properly treat honoured guests." 

"By trying to stab me this morning, and again just now?," Haldir asked in obvious disbelief, as he quested lower beneath the elf's leggings, running a hand over the tense muscles he found there. 

"No! I would not have harmed you. I simply intended to get the knife at your throat, then make you apologise. The only injury would have been to your overbearing pride! However," and Gildor shuddered at the venom lacing through Tuor's tone, "if you don't stop groping me, I may change my mind." 

"Groping you?," Haldir seemed genuinely amused. "Oh, no, cousin, THIS would be groping you," he commented. Gildor was not sure if it was Haldir's tone, which had mockery saturating every syllable, or the hand he slipped under Tuor's still struggling form, but a howl of pure outrage echoed through the forest from the Imladris elf. A second later, and the two were rolling around the glade, engaged in what looked like serious combat. 

Gildor was caught in a quandary, not knowing what to do. If he intervened, Tuor would know that he had seen him bested once more, and might well never forgive him. On the other hand, if he did nothing and let his mission leader be injured, how would he explain himself to Valandil? And the thought of Haldir being hurt was even worse, causing a sick feeling to puddle in his stomach. He decided to wait for the outcome, and only interfere if it looked like serious harm would otherwise be done. 

It had been, he reflected as he tried once again to find a safe position on the cursed talan, one of those plans that seem like a good idea at the time. In reality, he would feel much better if he had simply walked away and left them to it. Instead, he had stayed to see the blows turn into caresses and the curses into whispered endearments, as the fight changed slowly into something else. Haldir once again emerged on top, but this time, Tuor seemed much less inclined to argue. Gildor had thought in silent sympathy of the elf maid Haldir was supposed to meet, who was doubtless somewhere wondering what had happened to him. Gildor had almost left then, heart heavy with seeing Tuor's haughty blond looks make this particular conquest, but something held him in place. 

"You are beautiful, cousin," Haldir murmured, as he slowly relieved Tuor of his clothing. "So beautiful . . . and yet so proud . . . and so quick to anger, even against those whom you should esteem." The light, almost singsong voice continued, as the last piece of the elf's attire was tossed aside. "You speak about teaching me a lesson," Haldir whispered, running his hands along his captive's arms, slowly guiding them over his head, "but I think it is you who needs instruction." 

Tuor gazed up at him from half closed eyes, "Then educate me, Guardian," he said seductively. 

Haldir smiled, and something about the expression made Gildor suddenly bite his lip in worry. "I thought you'd never ask," he commented softly, as the rope he had slipped so unobtrusively about the darker elf's wrists was pulled tight, and simultaneously thrown over an overhanging branch. As Gildor bit back a startled cry, Tuor was raised from the ground in one swift movement and hung suspended in the air. Haldir looped the rope around his captive's flailing legs, then tied it off far out of his reach. After gagging him with a handkerchief, Haldir surveyed his handiwork, while running a hand down Tuor's bare back to cup one of his hips. "You know," he remarked conversationally, "I think I rather like you this way. You are so much more attractive when you aren't talking." 

Haldir bent and scooped up the scattered clothing, throwing what looked like a genuinely regretful glance at the trussed figure before him. "I would stay and complete your instruction, but I am afraid I have a previous engagement this eve, so I bid you good night." He walked to the edge of the glade as Gildor stood, surveying the scene in astonishment from his hidden position. "Oh, and don't worry, Tuor of Imladris," Haldir threw back over his shoulder as the Imladris elf, finally realising Haldir actually meant to leave him like that, began struggling wildly, "I am sure someone will be by to release you . . . eventually." And he walked away, humming what sounded like the same song from that afternoon. 

Gildor watched as Tuor struggled against his bonds, but Haldir had used good Lorien rope and Tuor's knife was far out of reach. Gildor knew his leader's self-importance would be seriously affronted to be found by some wandering Lorien elf, hung up like a freshly killed deer. He really ought to go release him, and he momentarily fingered the knife at his waist, but the almost savage look in Tuor's wild-eyed gaze made him pause. It was perfectly possible that he would be blamed, not thanked, if Tuor suspected that he had seen even a part of that night's activities. 

Gildor had stood in indecision for some time, listening with far more pleasure than he wanted to admit to the muffled sounds of impotent rage escaping from the bound and struggling figure in the glade. He then turned and, with his quietest tread, made for the narrow talan he had been assigned. So it was that he passed the night, feelings of guilt assailing him along with fair elvish music from the many campfires ringing him round. Finally, sometime near dawn, he managed to slip into sleep, with the image of a pair of laughing blue eyes merging into his dreams. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: Mirkwood 

Glorfindel took one look at Thranduil, King of the wood elves of Mirkwood, and decided that perhaps his diplomatic assignment was not going to be quite as dull as he'd imagined. The audience hall of the king was a huge room hollowed out of pure stone, with long tables lining either side and an impressive number of silken banners fluttering high overhead. The throne was the most ostentatious Glorfindel had ever seen, making Elrond's elaborately carved perch seem like an ordinary chair by comparison. But it was not the throne that interested Glorfindel, but rather the impressive elf currently slouched on it, looking as if he needed cheering up. Glorfindel specialized in spreading good cheer, especially when it came to gloriously handsome elves. 

"Lord Glorfindel of Imladris." As the herald announced him, Glorfindel passed along the narrow passage left by the seemingly thousands of elves who had crowded in to see the meeting, which most assumed would be memorable. 

"My Lord Glorfindel," Thranduil said, looking suddenly more interested in the proceedings, "Had Elrond sent anyone else, I would have been hard pressed not to order my archers to shoot him on sight. The famous Balrog slayer, however, I wanted to see for myself. I would hear about your famous battle over dinner tonight." 

Glorfindel repressed a wince and instead kept a broad, diplomatic smile on his face. Elbereth, but he was sick of telling that tale, even the highly expurgated form that he usually used on such occasions. Why did people assume that anyone would LIKE recalling the moment of their own extremely painful demise? Elrond had long ago made it clear that his seneschal was not required to reopen old wounds just to entertain curious visitors to Imladris, and, for the most part, Glorfindel was able to avoid the avid requests from passing guests by amusing them instead with libidinous stories from his somewhat disreputable past. Anything was better than dredging up that hoary old tale again. But it would, he knew, be difficult to ignore Thranduil's request, especially as it was the only thing keeping him from being unceremoniously escorted out the door. He knew, of course, that the king was bluffing--he wouldn't really harm any emissary Elrond chose to send--but he was also not obligated to receive them, and there was certainly no love lost between the two Lords. 

Of course, he thought, eying the dark emerald eyes, fair features and waist-length silver hair of the vision on the throne, given a little time and Glorfindel might be able to give the King of Mirkwood another reason for keeping him around. Ah, Elrond, he thought as he bowed gracefully in assent, what I do out of loyalty! 

* * *

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Haldir slowly drew a finger along the vein on the underside of Gildor's straining length, smiling to see his companion begin to move in his need. "Look at me," Haldir said softly, and Gildor obliged him, although a handsome blush suffused his features as their eyes met. Haldir smiled at the sight, a number of possibilities for increasing it running through his mind. He had not had a partner who blushed for . . . well, come to think of it, he did not think he ever had. Of course, that could be because his tastes had never run to innocents, with most of his partners being as experienced, or more so, than himself. Blushing was a rarity among his friends. Of course, now that he thought about it, there had been that little elf in Lorien, long ago . . . in fact, Gildor rather reminded him of the young one, whatever his name had been . . . it escaped Haldir at the moment, but memory of their actions was much clearer. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: Lorien 

The large meadow was filled with golden, star shaped elanor, which showed up well against the deep green of the grass. The Silvan elves that dotted it seemed from a distance as moving flowers themselves, their pale hair almost the same colour as the shy elanor and their garment s every hue of the rainbow. Many of them reclined among the grasses, on blankets and beside picnic baskets, attired in their festival best and in high spirits because of the coming competition. Haldir lounged on the sidelines between his two brothers, who were waiting impatiently for their moment to shine. Rumil was almost certain to take first honours in the wrestling matches, as, although he was lighter than most of the competition, no one was faster. Orophin was looking forward, as was Haldir himself, to archery, as they tended to trade off the top prize from year to year. Haldir had won it the last two years in a row, however, and Orophin was itching to best him. Haldir knew his brother had recently traded off some of his duty shifts to allow him to spend more time in practise, and would no doubt be a formidable opponent. 

The sun was too bright, the birds sang too sweetly and Haldir was too mellow from a fine lunch to care very much. If Orophin should beat him, well, there was always next year . . . as long as neither of them lost to one of the haughty visitors from Imladris! Haldir watched them as they milled about, looking out of place among the crowd of Silvans. Even Tuor, with his blond good looks, had hair too brassy and bulked too large to ever be mistaken for one of the tree dwellers. His companions stuck out even more, with dark hair and eyes such as was seldom seen in Lorien. The elfling was the worst and Haldir watched in idle amusement as he twisted his rather battered bow around in his hands, looking thoroughly nervous at the thought of competing amongst so many strangers. His messy braids fell forlornly about his dimpled cheeks, and his wide brown eyes surveyed the assembled throng with mingled fascination and dread. Despite his scruffy appearance, Haldir found him the only halfway likeable one among the group; although, if he was truly as helpless as he appeared, it was a wonder he had been included on the delegation. Was Imladris so lacking in decent agents these days that it must use children? 

Haldir was distracted from his thoughts by the first trumpet blast, signaling the beginning of the day's events. Almare and Turelie, the twin daughters of the legendary Nolwe, who had never lost a race, won the foot races. Their mother sat atop a slight rise, beaming as the victor's crowns of niphrodil were placed on their shining heads, her cheeks rosy from the strawberry wine she had been imbibing. Varyar won the wrestling competition, much to Rumil's disgust, and Haldir refrained from telling his competitive little brother that second overall was not a bad day's work. The other events seemingly flew by, and soon it was time for the test of archery skill. 

Haldir joined Orophin on the long, flat piece of ground selected for the main event. Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel sat in the shade of several nearby mallyrn, waiting to start the event as soon as everyone had taken their places. The crowd shifted in their direction, for archery was most elves' favourite sport. Haldir noted that the competition was much as usual, mostly Galadrim with a few other hopefuls thrown in and, this time, the guests from Imladris. All four had apparently decided to compete, and he briefly wondered about their skill, but soon the two who looked so much alike were eliminated, having given fair performances but nothing more. Haldir saw the tallest of the elves, who had also shown himself to be the wisest on their first meeting, pull the elfling aside and whisper something in his ear before leaving the field. Whatever it was, it made the child blush brightly, and seem to straighten up slightly. Some words of encouragement then, Haldir supposed, and he found himself hoping the little one would perform at least adequately before being eliminated. 

Haldir, as usual, made no mistakes, his six allotted arrows all finding their marks in the dead centre of the targets. Of course, this was the simple round, he reflected, as Orophin easily matched him. Eight others also managed perfect scores, including the proud Tuor, who gave Haldir a scathing glance as he passed him, causing the Galadrim to briefly wish he'd tightened those ropes a little more the night before. Oh well, dodging whatever mischief Tuor was planning would provide a bit of amusement until the annoying Imladris foursome went on their way. To Haldir's surprise, the youngest Imladris elf also managed to hit all the targets cleanly; that old bow of his must be a better weapon than it looked. 

The next two rounds eliminated most of the remaining competition, leaving, as usual, Haldir and Orophin shooting against each other. Less usually, two other elves had made the final cut, and it was much to Haldir's annoyance that they were the ones from Imladris. He was not about to be out shot on his own ground by any foreign elf, especially not that Tuor! Haldir exchanged glances with his brother and knew that Orophin was thinking the same thing--as long as one of them won, Lorien's reputation, and that of the Galadrim, was intact. 

For this last stage, the targets were suspended on three cords hung between two of the taller mallyrn, with about a yard of space between them, one on top of the other. Each cord had eight small disks attached to it, which were released by elves high in the branches on either side of the supports. There were six elves, one for either side of each rope, holding four disks that they could release whenever they chose. Sometimes, two or three would go at once, making it all but impossible to hit them all. The elves were blindfolded so that they could not see who was competing, nor what their fellow target holders were doing. The distance from the target and the fact that the ropes swayed in the almost perpetual breeze in the tops of the mallyrn, made this final selection the most difficult of all the day's events. No one had ever hit all twenty-four disks, and indeed, it was considered a very respectable score to manage half of them. Haldir hoped to improve on his personal best of 19, which had won him the tournament the previous year. 

A shrill whistle sounded as Tuor, who drew the white pebble from the sack that Celeborn held, was allowed the privilege of shooting first. He nocked a grey fletched arrow to his bow and waited for the next signal. Haldir had to admit that, if he was nervous, he did not let it show. As soon as the short note sang over the trees and the first disk was dropped, it was obvious why; annoying the elf might be, but he was talented. Haldir stood by impassively as disk after disk came to rest in the middle of the rope, cleanly shot through with one of Tuor's grey arrows. "Eighteen," the call rang out over the field, a total that won a round of surprised applause from the watching elves. It was especially impressive as the wind had picked up halfway through, making it likely, in Haldir's opinion, that Tuor would have tallied up several more hits if it had remained calm. 

Orophin selected the bluish pebble, giving him the next attempt. It was in a tense silence that he stepped up to the line, nocking one of the Galadrim's white fletched arrows to his bow as he did so. The crowd was unusually quiet, with no shifting and rustling of food wrappers, as all held their breath to see if Orophin could outshoot the Imladris visitor. His brother was seemingly calm, but Haldir knew he must realise he was shooting under a disadvantage. The wind was now whipping the thin grey ropes back and forth unpredictably, and, although Haldir suspected Celeborn of deliberately stalling to give the gusts a chance to die down, they were still strong when the whistle blew. Despite the handicap, his brother did well, hitting seventeen cleanly and only barely missing another. Still, that left Haldir with a job to do as he selected the reddish hued pebble from the bag. 

Celeborn sent him a look that clearly said, "Beat him," and Haldir gave an almost imperceptible nod in reply. The wind was still high when the whistle sounded, but Haldir was lucky and received good throws, with most of the disks sliding along the ropes cleanly and coming at regular intervals. He missed one that was whipped sideways by the wind just as his arrow reached it, and two more because, near the end of his turn, five disks were released all at once making it impossible to hit them all in the few seconds he had. Still, it was his best effort ever, and, at 21, a new Lorien record. Haldir only noticed the trickle of sweat that had run down his back when he stepped away from the line and Orophin enveloped him in a huge hug. "I've never been so glad to lose," his brother hissed in his ear, and Haldir gave him what he hoped was a confidant smile in return. In reality, he would have very much liked to sit down for a few minutes. 

"Wait, wait," Celeborn was saying, holding up his hands for silence as the applause, laughter and babble of relieved elves had risen to a crescendo. "We still have another contestant," he reminded them, and the crowd, now sure of a win for their champion, obligingly settled back down. 

Haldir felt true sympathy for the youngster, who bravely stepped up to the line but swallowed as he surveyed the ropes, now whipping in a high wind. It was by far the worst condition yet, and Haldir could only be thankful that he had shot when he did. Still, he hoped the elfling would somehow manage a halfway decent showing, or else there was a good chance that Tuor, glowering at the field from the sidelines, would make his life difficult. The young elf nocked an arrow, a rather strange one, Haldir noticed, with a black body but fletched with bright gold, and waited on the signal. It was barely audible over the sound of the wind, but he heard it and began releasing arrows. 

At first, Haldir thought the child had lost his nerve and begun shooting wildly, as he was releasing far more arrows than there were targets; indeed, Haldir had scarcely ever seen anyone shoot so many so quickly. After a few seconds, however, he realised what the elf was doing. Having had time, he supposed, to watch he and Orophin battle the elements, and learning from their mistakes, he was compensating for the shifting ropes by shooting arrows two at a time spaced slightly apart, to allow for sudden changes in wind direction. To Haldir's surprise, it was working. Although many of his arrows went wide, many others found targets, with a few targets even hit twice. There was just one problem with the plan, Haldir realised, as target after target was pierced; he was almost certain to run out of arrows. Not having anticipated the need to shoot doubles, he had not brought enough to allow him to finish. Haldir doubted that the elfling realised his predicament, as his whole attention was focused on the now wildly whipping ropes and the tiny disks that slid so quickly along them. 

Without thinking, Haldir reached into his own quiver and drew out the four arrows he had yet to use. As the elfling's hands reached back for another arrow, and encountered only air, Haldir slipped two into his searching palm. The fact that they were white and not gold, and silver mallyrn fair instead of black, did not apparently register on the elfling's focused mind. 

"Orophin," Haldir whispered, extending a hand. His brother gave him a startled look, but after a brief hesitation, handed over his five remaining arrows. They were slipped into the elfling's quiver without his noticing, and proved to be just enough to do the job. 

"Twenty-four," Celeborn called out, disbelief in his tone, and the crowd erupted into unrestrained shouts and cheers, the thrill of the skill and ingenuity they had just seen displayed canceling out all other considerations. "I'll talk to you later," Celeborn informed Haldir shortly, and Orophin, giving his brother a cheeky grin, slid away before the annoyed Lord could catch him. 

The elfling, Haldir noticed, was looking in surprise at the white fletched arrow he had just unnocked from his bow. He looked up at Haldir in amazement. "I don't understand." 

Haldir laughed and ruffled his wind swept hair. The child was not handsome, but he certainly had talent. "No one ever made a perfect score; I wanted you to have the chance," he told him, "Now come and claim your crown." 

* * *

That evening, despite the bad weather that had blown up in the afternoon, parties of all types were held anyway, as those who had come to town for market day were to depart on the morrow and did not intend to miss a last chance for socializing. Haldir stood inside the Lord and Lady's great talan and watched the rain drip from the roof. The calm blue twilight, which was as close to darkness as Lorien ever managed, should have been peaceful, but he could still hear Celeborn's scathing comments ringing in his ears. Despite appearances, his Lord could be quite competitive. He had not been happy to have the match thrown, as he had phrased it, to an Imladris elf, and one scarcely past his majority at that. It had not helped that Tuor had had a number of pointed comments to make about the skills of the Galadrim that afternoon, which Haldir thought was fairly raw as he had, after all, been beaten by one of those Galadrim himself. 

He noticed now the unhappy face of the afternoon's winner, and wondered if perhaps he should have let the child run out of arrows, after all. He certainly did not look like he was enjoying his victory, and Haldir wondered why. Approaching the elf, whose niphrodil crown was beginning to wilt somewhat, he smiled and settled himself onto a large knot in a tree growing a few feet from the edge of the talan. The overhanging branches kept most of the rain off, and allowed him to sit at much the same level as the elfling, who was seated at the edge of the talan, and staring out morosely at the night. 

"Why so glum, little one? Did you not triumph today?" 

The child looked up at him as if surprised anyone was addressing him. 

"Where are your friends; do they not wish to congratulate you on your victory?" 

"I . . . I think Aikanaro is somewhere about . . . he has old friends here and they are leaving tomorrow so . . . " 

"And what about the others in your company?" 

The elf twisted about, "They were here, earlier," he said, but Haldir noticed that he did not look sorry to have lost them. 

"Then I am in luck," Haldir commented, "as it seems I have you all to myself." 

The child looked up from contemplating his hands, and caught Haldir's eye. He blushed as prettily as a maiden, and quickly looked elsewhere. Haldir had meant to have only a short conversation, to perhaps cheer the elf up, as it seemed ridiculous that he, of all people, should be unhappy this night. But that blush was enchanting, and Haldir was now remembering a similar expression he had seen on the young one's face when first they met. I am getting old, he thought in amusement, if I cannot spot a crush when it is so obvious. Ah, well, why not? He had nothing else to do that evening, as his previous night's diversion had left that morning to be in time for another fair elsewhere. 

"I think the rain has stopped," Haldir commented, holding out a hand, and indeed, although the leaves still dripped, the sky itself was clear. The clouds had moved away from the moon, which was visible this close to the treetops. "Walk with me," and the elf obligingly took his proffered hand, allowing him to lead him across several of the high suspended bridges and through the trees to a much smaller talan a good distance away from the Lord and Lady's. 

After shedding his damp cloak and outer tunic, and helping the elfling off with his, Haldir pulled him down on top of him and drew him into a deep kiss. The elf seemed taken aback, and almost immediately drew away looking flustered. Haldir laughed, "What's this? You do not want your victory prize?," and pulled him down again. This time he went slower, and was more gentle, and the elf melted against him as Haldir once more slipped in between his sweet lips. Oh, this felt nice, he thought, slipping a hand under his companion's silky hair to draw him even closer. A few deft movements and the elf's shirt was gone, allowing Haldir access to a very tempting torso. He had just begun to explore a tiny pink nipple when a laugh echoed through the room. 

"Well, at least now I know why I lost five good arrows today!" 

Haldir looked up to see Orophin and Rumil, the latter with a lighted lantern in hand, standing in the doorway with identical grins on their faces. 

"I think it is MY night in the talan?," Haldir pointed out, and considering that he had had to make love to Idril in the back of her tiny covered wagon the night before, he was not happy to see his brothers now. 

"We do most heartily apologise, to you both," Rumil said, bowing formally in their direction, "we just needed to pick up a few things . . ." 

"Don't let us interrupt," Orophin added, leering good-naturedly at the elfling, whose face was glowing bright red in the dim lantern light. 

"We won't," Haldir replied, trying to resume where they'd left off, only to have the elf jump to his feet and stumble backwards, clutching his shirt to his bare chest and looking mortified. 

"I . . . I really have to go . . .," he said, refusing to meet any of their eyes, and fled from the talan as fast as his feet could carry him. Haldir called after him, but the young one was too quick and almost immediately disappeared into the night. 

Haldir turned to glare at his two siblings, who at least had the grace to look somewhat abashed. 

"Sorry," Rumil muttered, before making his own quick escape. 

Orophin smiled sheepishly at his brother. "I suppose our timing could have been better?" 

Haldir, who had participated in the many toasts drunk in his honour that night, sighed and let his slightly swimming head fall back against the cushions of his pallet. "You could say that, brother," he replied, before giving up on the day and succumbing to slumber. 

**TBC**


	3. 3-5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of [Unspoken](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497804)/[Revelations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497255)/[Changes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497078). A sweet little fic about Haldir's and Gildor's relationship.

Second Age: 3121: Mirkwood 

The heavy iron banded door swung outward and there he was, sitting on a small cot in the corner, looking mad as Mandos. Glorfindel tried to suppress a grin, but failed. "Yes, captain, that is my, er, colleague. If I might speak with him alone, for a few moments?" 

The captain nodded and withdrew, having already been given orders to let the two talk if they wished. There was no reason why not, after all; they could plot all they liked, but it would avail them nothing. His predecessor had been sacked for letting those halflings outwit him and security was significantly tightened thereafter. One thing was certain, no one escaped from HIS dungeons. 

Erestor waited until the door slammed shut before pouncing on Glorfindel. "WHERE have you been? Do you have any idea what it has been like, cooped up in here day after day, no books, no music, no conversation? I thought I would go mad!" 

Removing the clutching hands from his robes with some difficulty, Glorfindel stepped back and straightened his garments. "I have a package here for you from Elrond. I believe he included some books, and also some clothing," which, seeing the state of Erestor's current attire, had been a good idea. "Perhaps you can pass the time more comfortably now." 

"Pass the time? What do you mean, pass the time? Haven't you come to get me OUT?" Erestor's voice rose precipitously at the last, and Glorfindel shot him a warning look. The door was thick, true, but there was no reason to be careless. 

"I am here at Elrond's bidding to petition King Thranduil for your release, yes, but so far, there has been no interest shown in complying with that request." Glorfindel seated himself on the end of the narrow cot and looked around in distaste. The room was clean, and furnished with the basic necessities of bed and washstand, as well as an old, slightly rusted sconce on the wall holding two greasy yellow candles. However, it was very bare, with stone floors over which only a few rushes had been scattered, and no window other than the tiny one, currently shut, in the door. He could imagine how forlorn Erestor must have felt these last weeks--not that he didn't deserve it, of course. 

"So, how long will these negotiations take?, Erestor asked petulantly, while rummaging through the large parcel Glorfindel had deposited beside the cot. "I'm needed back at Imladris, you know; it will be time for summer festival soon and the Valar only know how everything will get arranged without me!" 

"You might, perhaps, have thought of that before you ran off after some tramp of a delivery boy and left us high and dry," was the acerbic response. 

"I did no such thing! I was merely attempting to discover the reason for the sporadic wine supply of late, as we'll be needing quite a bit for the festival, and . . . ," he trailed off at Glorfindel's arch look. 

"It's no good, Erestor. Save it for Elrond when we get back, assuming we ever do. Thranduil's people caught you sniffing about their borders, looking very suspicious and asking too many questions. They really believe you were spying. I suppose we could try to explain that you were just trying to discover where your little Mirkwood dalliance had run off to, but I doubt very much if they would believe it. I, myself, have a problem believing that anyone long trusted by Elrond in the most important of positions could possibly be so irresponsible, yet I have no choice." 

"Are you quite finished?" 

"No." Glorfindel rose from the cot and paced about, looking disgusted. "To compound your error, you attacked several of the guards while they were attempting to bring you here, destroyed some valuable property in what I understand was an extremely clumsy escape attempt thereafter, and then tried that ridiculous wine story on Thranduil who, whatever else he may be, is not stupid! Frankly, it's a wonder you're still alive." 

"And I suppose you would have done better?" 

'I wouldn't have been here in the first place! And now I have the joyous task of somehow managing to convince the king to release you into the hands of the elf he likes least in all of Arda. You are going to owe me a few hundred years worth of favours if I manage to pull this off!" 

"Well, forgive my obtuseness," Erestor replied sarcastically, "but I fail to see why you have to convince anyone of anything at all. Relations between Imladris and Mirkwood can't get much worse than they already are--Elrond's very name is practically an expletive in these parts--so why waste time on diplomacy? Especially when it isn't likely to work anyway? Just break me out of here." 

Glorfindel sat down again and glared at his wayward acquaintance. He usually considered him a friend, but at the moment, he wasn't feeling very friendly. Elrond had spoiled the creature, that was the problem. He managed to get his own way so much of the time that he had forgotten about such petty concerns as personal responsibility. Elrond would always be available to come to the rescue of his favourite, no matter how unwise that favourite had been. Glorfindel was highly tempted to return to Imladris, claiming failure, and let Erestor stew in Thranduil's dungeons until some other way could be found to obtain his release. His loyalty to Elrond was the main reason he did not; well, that and a fascinating pair of ancient, emerald eyes. 

"We do have a backup plan," he volunteered, at which Erestor perked up considerably. "A party of our best agents is on the way here now. They have stopped over in Lorien to pick up a guide--if we have to 'break you out,' as you say, Thranduil will certainly come after you and we'll need to take an alternative route home. However," he warned, seeing the smug look that was spreading over Erestor's chubby cheeks, "they will not be here for a few more days at least, and I intend to use that time to see if another solution cannot be reached. This could be an opportunity for improving relations between our two lands, so long sundered by misunderstanding and sorrow." 

Erestor snorted in amusement. "Now who is telling tails? 'Improve relations,' indeed. And once you've finished doing that, assuming you can still walk, do please remember to come get me out, would you?" 

Glorfindel stood and rapped smartly on the door for the guard, ignoring the pain in his knuckles. Spoiled brat, he thought again. Well, dear little Erestor, I'll get you out, as I promised Elrond, but not before you learn a few things. He isn't here to protect you now. 

* * *

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

"No," Gildor stopped his beautiful partner before he could let his lips follow where his hands had led. Haldir had already pleasured Gildor once that day, and spent half his morning giving him his full attention. Now it was time to even the score. "I want to give you pleasure. Will you let me?" Haldir looked surprised, but agreed, looking curious as to what his innocent partner might have in mind. Gildor repressed a smile; inexperienced he might be compared to Haldir's other lovers, but he had one very definite advantage . . . 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: Lorien 

Gildor had not intended to meet up with Haldir again quickly, if at all. He was confused by the torrent of unfamiliar emotions the older elf's casual actions of the night before had brought out in him, and, after a second fitful night's sleep in a row, just wanted to go somewhere quiet and think. He asked several elves where to find a stream suitable for bathing, then deliberately chose the one farthest from the city. It had taken almost an hour's hike to get to where a noisy brook fell over some dark rocks, forming a small pool below. He had been sitting there for some time, quite miserable as he tried, and failed, not to replay the previous night's encounter in his head. Yet, he was too nervous of meeting Haldir to dare return to the city until he'd sorted out his confused emotions. He had no idea if the elf, who was beginning to dominate his thoughts, was going to hate him for running away or want to pick up where they had left off. The first possibility depressed him enormously, but the second frankly terrified him, as he wasn't sure what he wanted, or if he was ready, or if he would be any good if he tried . . . 

It was sometime in mid-morning when he finally decided that to remain, sitting soapy and dejected in the pool, would accomplish nothing except to make him even more wrinkled than he already was. He had just picked up a gourd dipper to wash the shampoo out of his hair, when he heard a familiar voice singing an enchanting melody in the woods. It was the song he had begun to associate with Haldir, as he seemed to always be singing or humming it whenever Gildor encountered him. The sound was unmistakably getting louder, and Gildor realised with alarm that Haldir must be coming his way. 

Gildor had been trained to remain calm even in battle conditions, and to think logically and act swiftly under pressure. Nonetheless, he sat frozen as sudden and unaccountable terror swept through him. No! Haldir couldn't catch him like this! He looked down in horror at his nude, soup slicked body and glanced frantically around at the quiet, isolated, and very romantic setting, with flowers growing among the black rocks and leafy trees forming a bright canopy overhead. However, after the first instant, training took over and he snapped out of the trance, dropped his gourd, scooped up his clothes, and fled. He reached the edge of the surrounding trees just as Haldir stepped into the glade, a bathing towel slung casually over his shoulder. 

Gildor dove behind a thicket of bushes, not even daring to breathe. Haldir did not seemingly notice his frantic exit, which the trickle of the fall over the rocks had muffled. He realised after a few anxious seconds that the sound of the water would probably cover his retreat, too, and told himself to get off the forest floor and start back to the city. The compost heap made from generations of fallen leaves in which he'd landed was undoing the effect of his morning's ablutions, and the remaining soap in his hair was trickling into his eyes, causing them to burn. Gildor pushed back his bangs and ran a hand over his face, preparing to scramble to his feet and rush away, but when his vision cleared he saw something that made him hesitate, mouth falling open in wonder. The figure in the glade had begun to disrobe. Some heretofore quiet part of Gildor's mind whispered that, once Haldir was actually in the water, it would be less likely that he would notice his departure. Yes, he thought blankly, he'd leave . . . in just a little while . . . when it was safe . . . and then he forgot to think at all. 

Gildor watched as Haldir laid his tunic and shirt over a rock, well away from the water's edge, and paused to stretch languorously in the warm morning sunshine. The movement of well-toned muscles under flawless skin, darker gold at his neck and hands, but fading to pure cream on the parts of his body clothes usually covered, was the most wonderful sight Gildor had ever seen. Haldir appeared truly a creature of the forest, the blue of his eyes echoing that of the sky overhead, the silver-gold of his hair almost exactly the shade of the mallyrn leaves, and the green of his garments blending perfectly into that of the underbrush. It was more than his colouring, though, there was something about Haldir that was as free and untamed as the forest he called home, as demonstrated by his sensual enjoyment of a simple thing like a bath. Of course, Gildor thought, swallowing slightly as Haldir turned away to tug off a boot, baring a long pale back to his view, it could be that he had previously underrated the possibilities inherent in bathing. 

The boots were soon removed, and despite the beauty of their workmanship, tossed carelessly aside. The skillfully wrought hair ornaments were treated with more respect; after being pulled from fine blond tresses, they were tucked into folds of the discarded tunic. When Haldir's hands dropped to the lacings of his leggings, Gildor felt somewhat giddy, and wriggled silently into better position under his leafy blind. The dark green fabric hugged Haldir's body tightly and only came away slowly, baring first creamy buttocks, then silky thighs and finally well-muscled calves to view. By the time the garment was negligently tossed on top of the tunic, Gildor could no more have forced himself to turn away than he could have flown. 

Haldir perched upon a smooth, flat topped rock well covered in spray from the waterfall, and droplets filled with tiny rainbows were soon sparkling off his water slicked skin. Beads of moisture gathered on his high arched brows and dark lashes, before cascading down his high cheekbones to wet his lips; other tiny streams soon formed on his shoulders and ran down his chest, gathering in a small pool on his reclining stomach. When he bent to retrieve a washing cloth from his clothing, the motion caused a small cascade over the muscles of his upper thighs. 

When Haldir added soap to the cloth and began to run it leisurely over his entire form, Gildor found himself in a new predicament, as his body responded to the seductive picture before him. He shifted slightly, but could not make his growing awareness fade, and his eyes simply ignored his brain's order for them to look elsewhere. Instead, they followed that lucky washcloth as it roamed over the elf's fine chest and arms, moved on to the satiny skin of his inner legs, glided along the jointure of his hip, and finally caressed the velvety orbs and fine, silver hair at the base of his flaccid sex. When Haldir suddenly tossed the cloth aside and began to gently stroke himself, Gildor's gaze lingered helplessly on the tantalizing image, despite the fact that he became immediately fully hard himself. 

As the beautiful elf before him slowly brought himself erect, brushing teasing fingertips over the plum coloured head before beginning long, slow strokes along his full length, Gildor found himself wishing fervently that it was his hand who fondled him, his fingers that played along that warm, pulsating flesh and were wet by the even warmer liquid leaking from its tip. He dropped a hand to his own arousal, and found himself stroking in time with the beautiful creature under the waterfall. When Haldir finally cried out his release, Gildor came at almost the same instant, biting down hard on his lips and burying his face in the compost, to keep from echoing that cry over the forest. 

When Gildor finally looked back up, Haldir had finished his bath and was drying off. Dressing quickly, he wrapped his bathing materials in his damp towel, and walked back in the direction of Caras Galadhon, the same joyful tune lingering after him on the morning breeze. Gildor waited until the notes had completely faded from his hearing before he ventured forth from his hiding place, covered in dirt and leaves and the evidence of his own recent arousal, and weak kneed from emotions too strong for him to fully understand or know how to deal with. 

Creeping back into the glade, he rinsed himself off, then paused halfway through, dismayed to see his clothing sitting in full view on a nearby rock. His heart stopped for an instant, until he remembered that he had taken his clothes with him, snatching them up just before had Haldir entered the clearing. They now resided almost in the water, where he had dropped them only a moment ago. These others must, then, be someone else's, only he did not remember any being there when he arrived that morning, and they were sitting in plain sight. Emerging again from the pool, he walked over to the neatly folded clothes to investigate. 

It was only when he lifted the top layer, a greenish grey cloak that could have belonged to anyone, to reveal the silky dark orange fabric beneath it, that he realised, with plummeting stomach, what he was actually seeing. They were his clothes, but he had not brought them. The last time he had seen them was the night before--when he had left them behind in his flight from Haldir's talan. 

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Remembering the humiliation he had suffered that morning, Gildor vowed to make his partner pay, in the sweetest way, for it now. Haldir had obligingly reclined on the bed, his eyes amused as they followed his companion's actions. They did not stay amused for long. Gildor recalled clearly every image, every slight touch Haldir had given himself on that morning so long ago. He had lost count of the times had he played that scene over in his mind, of the nights had it formed the centre of desperate, longing dreams that ended only in lonely wakefulness. He knew exactly where and how Haldir most liked to be touched, and, within a few intense moments, had his companion writhing beneath him in want, rubbing his arousal along the muscular thigh that spread his legs. Sliding full-length against Haldir, Gildor dragged his own arousal across the smooth stomach until their erections met, thrilled to see the wild look that came into his partner's eyes, which darkened so much with need that it was impossible any longer to say their exact colour. At last he slowly, teasingly, took Haldir into his mouth, caressing every inch of him with a warm tongue, allowing his companion no rest from overwhelming sensation until the elf beneath him arched up, spilling himself in hot, strong pulses and hoarsely crying out his companion's name. It was, Gildor decided, the sweetest music he'd ever heard. 

Second Age: 3121: Mirkwood 

It wasn't until dinner that evening that Glorfindel realised the true extent of Erestor's folly, and it took all his long years of experience to keep a diplomatic smile plastered firmly to his face. "I'm going to kill him," he thought, and, as Thranduil introduced him to his fine-looking sons--including his youngest, Prince Legolas--he was very close to meaning it. The elfling had a beautiful face, a truly memorable face, but that hardly mattered as Glorfindel could not very well have forgotten someone he had just encountered a few weeks before. 

He recalled perfectly the last time he had seen those fair, smiling features, outside the kitchen stairs in Imladris as Legolas and several other wood elves unloaded heavy barrels of wine bound for Elrond's cellars from a laden cart. Glorfindel had paused in his conversation with Erestor to admire the way the muscles in the young elf's arms were shown off by his exertion, and how the bright gold of his hair shone even in the dappled sunlight of the tree shaded garden. Erestor had seen the direction of his friend's gaze and laughed, pulling him away from the window. "That one is taken," the old rou had informed him, jovially but with a serious undertone. Then, a few days later, Erestor had disappeared, leaving only a brief note for Elrond and an even briefer one for Glorfindel, explaining that he was taking a journey to check on the wine delivery. 

Glorfindel, of course, had immediately suspected the truth, but had said nothing to Elrond, hoping that Erestor would quickly get the young one out of his system and return to Imladris without causing any upheaval. He sighed inwardly as he firmly grasped Legolas' hand and smiled as charmingly as he could manage. He should have known better; getting over this one would be a task of more than a few days. As those bright young eyes met his, brimming with laughter and self-confidence, he found his own smile becoming more genuine. Yes, he could see the temptation that had made Erestor act like a besotted youth in the midst of fenneth, for the elfling before him had inherited his father's beauty, but also had an innocent quality about him that was . . . well, very alluring. Glorfindel found himself releasing the young one's hand with a bit more reluctance than he should have had, and sharply brought himself under control. One of them had to maintain some degree of sanity, if this situation was to be salvaged, and the Valar knew it wasn't going to be Erestor. 

As exquisite course followed exquisite course, Glorfindel carefully watched Legolas, who had been seated across the table from him, and learned several useful things. First, the young one had either not seen him during his short visit to Imladris or else did not remember him; Glorfindel's pride far preferred the former. Secondly, Thranduil had no idea where his youngest had recently been, as it was mentioned that he had just returned from a lengthy tour of the border regions. Legolas smiled calmly enough at that, and readily answered his father's queries about several of the outlying areas, but said nothing whatever about having made any side trips. What he had been doing, dressed as a common labourer, all the way in Imladris--which could not by any stretch of the imagination be considered a borderland of Mirkwood--was beyond Glorfindel. However, it did give him a useful lever, as it was obvious Prince Legolas did not want his father to know anything about it. 

So he smiled, chatted and, eventually, allowed himself to be persuaded to relive the whole disturbing Balrog incident, which he made into a glorious combat instead of the long, painful, drawn out slog it had really been. Legolas listened as avidly as everyone else, giving Glorfindel reason to believe that obtaining a private word with him after the meal should be easy. However, it seemed Thranduil had other plans. 

"Walk with me, seneschal," his host said as the meal came to a close, and his strong hand gripped Glorfindel's arm in an iron hold. It was rather startling, as no one had dared to touch Glorfindel in such a manner in . . . . well, he couldn't actually remember when. Certainly not within the last age. It seemed that Thranduil was not particularly intimidated by either his reputation or his person, and the novelty of that thought caused Glorfindel to rethink his after dinner plans. Ah well, he thought, as Thranduil led him from the dining chamber, shrugging off with a few brief comments all attempts by his courtiers to detain them, one more night in his cell would hardly kill Erestor, and perhaps it was time to begin mending a few diplomatic fences. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's Court, Mirkwood 

Thranduil's private chambers were deep below ground, putting Glorfindel slightly on edge. He couldn't understand elves who actually didn't mind being underground, even to the point of sleeping there. His own quarters at Imladris were inner rooms, without window or balcony, a fact that had made Erestor look at him strangely when he'd requested them. His choice had been a practical one, however, as they were much more spacious than any of the available outer chambers. They also, he thought as he stepped into the king's rooms, did not have the feeling of much heavy stone about to drop on one's head. Thranduil certainly could have selected any chambers he liked, however, so Glorfindel had to assume he preferred these. It made him wonder in how many other aspects they differed. 

The quarters were comfortable, Glorfindel had to admit, the stone walls softened with tapestries woven cleverly with woodland scenes, the granite bones of the floor cushioned with old carpets in pleasingly muted shades, and a great carved fireplace provided a pleasing warmth. Skillfully wrought weapons--a sword, a twin pair of knives, and a broken spear--were arranged artistically over the mantle. Studying them, Glorfindel reflected that it was too often forgotten in Imladris that Thranduil had also fought bravely in the Last Alliance. Several doors branched off into other rooms, but they were securely closed. No servants were in evidence; apparently, Thranduil preferred this to be a private meeting. 

The king handed Glorfindel a glass of ruby coloured wine before settling down in a chair across from him, comfortably arranged before the blaze. As was the case with Elrond and a few other elves of Glorfindel's acquaintance, a feeling of repressed energy hummed off Thranduil, so much so that, even sitting calmly, he was impossible to ignore. Although the room was large and the chairs spaced well apart, Glorfindel felt an intimacy wrapping itself around him like a cozy blanket, as if there was nothing beyond the circle of the firelight, no other beings at all in the large palace complex except for he and the king. The feeling was probably due to a spell, he knew, but it was a good one, effective but subtle enough to go unnoticed by most. Sampling his wine, Glorfindel noted in amusement that it was a much better vintage than any habitually exported to Imladris. Thranduil obviously wanted something; Glorfindel only hoped he knew what that was. 

"So," the king smiled at him, and it was a particularly charming smile that lit up not only his strong, fair features, but also his eyes. "You promised to tell me that tale after dinner." 

Glorfindel sipped the rich liquor in his glass and admired the way the firelight danced off the gold threads woven through Thranduil's amber coloured sash and gilded his long lashes. The eyes underneath them were, in this light, almost black, with only an occasional flash of green. "My liege?" 

"Come now, I want all the details, leave nothing out!" Thranduil settled himself back in his chair and looked expectant, like a small elfling ready for a treat. It was a peculiarly charming expression that, despite his centuries, did not seem incongruous. Glorfindel remembered the way his host's musical laughter had rung out repeatedly over the dining table that night, and how he had seemed to genuinely enjoy the myriad conversations taking place there; for most of the meal, he had been simultaneously involved in three or four of them. His dialogue had shown him to be both intelligent and passionate about his opinions, as well as alternately cunning and charming in persuading others to concede his points. Glorfindel had looked forward to matching wits with him, but at the moment, felt a little confused. 

"I will, of course, be delighted to oblige your majesty. What tale exactly is it you wish to hear?" 

"About your epic encounter with the Balrog, of course. Although I am certain," Thranduil allowed his eyes to travel from Glorfindel's burnished hair to the tips of his maroon velvet slippers, a small smile quirking at the corner of his mouth, "that you have had many other interesting experiences through the years. However, that is the one I wish to hear about tonight." 

Glorfindel was beginning to become uneasy. He had always discounted reports of Thranduil's oddities as mere rumour mongering, but he was now beginning to wish he'd paid a bit more attention to them. He did not like the idea of being trapped in an underground chamber with a lunatic, however attractive of one. However, if that was, indeed, the case, he supposed he'd better humour him. "I believe I gave an account of that combat at dinner, my liege, but, if you wish to hear it again . . . " 

"Bah," Thranduil waved an impatient hand, its large ruby ring throwing out reflections of light that danced along the walls and ceiling. "You tell a good story, seneschal, and I enjoy a well told tale as much as the next elf, but you can forgo all those fancy embellishments now. They make for good entertainment, but I need the truth!" 

Glorfindel did not at all like the direction this conversation was taking. If this was a seduction scene, it was the oddest one he'd ever encountered which, considering a few events from his past, was saying something. But if it wasn't . . . well, that begged the question of exactly what Thranduil really wanted with him, and he somehow didn't think it was to dredge up First Age history. "The truth?" 

"Yes, yes! How you did it! You killed a Balrog--only elf in Middle Earth ever that brave . . . or that brainless, as some have said. Not that I was among them," he hurried to add, "but it does give you rather more . . . experience . .. in dealing with dangerous creatures than most can boast." 

"I suppose," Glorfindel really did not like the way Thranduil's eyes were sparkling and the anticipatory gleam in his eye. The glow of the fire bathed his face in flickering vermilion shadows, making him look suddenly more than a little dangerous himself. "It has been quite awhile since I actually recounted the . . . unembellished version, as you say," he commented, while wondering just what it was they were actually discussing. 

"Quite all right," the king assured him, "take your time. Just don't leave anything out. I intend to discover all your secrets, seneschal!" The last was said in a velvet purr, just another of the startling range of tones Thranduil had at his command. The king's smile was infectious, tiny laugh lines crinkling around his eyes, his full mouth revealing even white teeth. 

Glorfindel repressed a desire to do or say something to wipe that so smug look off his face. Thranduil was clearly used to getting his way, certain of his beauty, his allure . . . He remembered one long ago conversation he'd overheard about the king. One of the ambassadors Elrond had sent in the hopes of improving relations had commented that Thranduil could 'charm you out of your last coin if you don't keep an eye on him. I used to sit back and watch people try to wriggle out of whatever it was he wanted and bet with myself on how long they'd last. None ever did for any time.' Well, Glorfindel thought now, observing the jovial face before him with annoyance, we'll see. You won't find me so easy to manipulate, Thranduil of Mirkwood. 

* * *

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Haldir could not recall the last time he had been left speechless, but he had no words for the feelings swamping him as Gildor continued his attentions. Elbereth! And he had thought the elf unskilled! Somehow, Gildor knew just how to touch him, and did everything he liked, stroking his hips as he sucked him hard and then tenderly, winding his tongue around him and even very lightly nibbling along his rigid flesh before taking him in all the way. Gildor's tongue was hot and the perfect combination of forceful and gentle. It left him weak to the bones, and set flames of pleasure licking along his flesh, turning his body into a paradise of pleasure and sensation. 

Haldir pulled him up and kissed him with all the skill he'd acquired over the millennia, only to find Gildor kissing him back, really kissing him, with an intensity that left Haldir aware--when he could think--that the elf had definitely been holding himself back until now. Agile fingertips brushed all of the sensitive spots along his ribs and across his chest while the kisses became longer and deeper. Gildor pressed against him, almost burying him in the thick feather mattress beneath them, while those burning, bruising kisses continued, tongues dueling, thighs intertwined, until Haldir was breathless. It was rare for him to find a partner who fully matched his frankly sensual nature, yet it seemed Gildor was such a one. It took all Haldir's control not to flip him over and pleasure him until he passed out due to sheer exhaustion. When Haldir could stand the exquisite torture no more, he came in a rush of sound and light and intensity of feeling he had not experienced in a very long time. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: On the Road Through Mirkwood 

Lord Celeborn addressed the group as a whole, "And so I have decided that Haldir, my Marchwarden, will lead you into Mirkwood, then take your party, if need be, through the hidden passes in the mountains, so that you may return in safety to Imladris." 

Gildor wasn't looking at Celeborn nor, for a change, was his attention on Haldir, who stood slightly to one side of his king looking reserved. Instead, he was focused on Tuor, who seemed strangely calm about the selection. So calm, in fact, that it might be assumed that he had already known. If that was the case, Gildor had to wonder why he had not tried to stop the appointment. Of course, he may have done--as Gildor had been present at none of the consultations, he could not know one way or the other--but Tuor was poor at concealing his displeasure when something vexed him, and he did not looked displeased at the moment. Gildor said nothing, of course, for what could he do? Tuor had done nothing but accept with equanimity the guide Lord Celeborn had selected; nonetheless, he vowed to keep a close watch on his mission leader. 

That wish, plus his desire not to talk to Haldir until he sorted a few things out, caused Gildor to stay at the very back of the little cavalcade as it left Lorien, his small mare clip clopping along in the wake of the magnificent horses used by his companions. Gildor had taken a good deal of teasing about his choice of mount, but he liked the smaller horse, which, with her gentle nature, was far easier for him to control than one of the more spirited horses ridden by the group's better riders. He resolutely avoided looking at their guide, instead watching the scenery pass mile after quiet mile. Before midday, however, he caught himself staring dreamily at that blonde hair which looked like it would be as cool as water through his fingers, at the long, graceful legs, the perfect posture, the elegant fingers that held the reigns so negligently . . . He shook his head and went back to admiring safer scenery. 

The alien emotions did not go away, however; day by day, they became more insistent and harder to ignore. He found himself staring at the way the firelight from their evening camp washed over Haldir's form, turning him into a golden statue that nonetheless laughed and talked and told naughty little stories for which Gildor was heartily thankful, as they gave him an excuse for his flushed face. Haldir rarely spoke to him directly, but also did not seem uneasy around him; it was almost as if, to the Galadrim, nothing particularly unusual had happened between them. And perhaps, Gildor reflected, it hadn't, at least not for him. Perhaps he so regularly flirted with visitors to the Golden Wood who happened to catch his eye, that the actions had little meaning. But they had meant something to Gildor, who watched Haldir's every movement, drinking in the sight of him like Arda's fields did the first spring rain. He was perfection, beauty given form. 

He found himself wanting to kiss Haldir until he cried out and couldn't breathe; he wanted to run his hands along those fine, pale arms and slide over that beautiful chest; he wanted . . . he wasn't sure what, but not this easy camaraderie, this almost indifference. He felt horribly tangled up inside, and by the time they finally reached the road through Mirkwood, was no longer sure what he felt for Haldir--gratitude, shame, fear, desire, or a muddle of them all. One thing was certain, however, it was not the mild hero worship of those few days in Lorien. It was something stronger, more possessive, as made all too clear when Haldir had laughed a little too long with Aikanaro one day, causing a biting flash of jealousy to flare through Gildor. It both surprised and dismayed him. What was happening to him? He wasn't sure he wanted to know. 

Gildor managed to stay quiet and watchful, a barely noticed presence, until their first night in Mirkwood. He would not have believed it possible that he would ever dislike a forest. Like all of his people, he loved green, growing things, and places where one was surrounded by the concentrated enchantment of Arda were usually heaven indeed. Even Lothlorien, where the trees had not spoken to him, viewing him as an outsider instead of one of their own, had been a pleasant place. Since they entered Mirkwood, however, he had felt . . . uneasy, almost oppressed, for instead of giving him energy and renewing his life force, as forests always had, this one seemed to almost drain something from him. If he could have associated such a word with any place rampant with so much life, he would have called it ghostly. That unnerving sensation, plus Tuor's easy good humour during the trip, so out of character as to be almost frightening, had been enough to put Gildor extremely on edge. 

It was almost with a sense of inevitability, then, that he watched as Aikanaro's horse, a young chestnut stallion, reared as something small and pale scurried out from the forest's edge and ran under its hooves. It bucked, neighing fiercely, and suddenly plunged into the gloom beyond the path. Haldir cursed and immediately followed, calling out for Aikanaro to reign in his animal. "Do not leave the path!," he warned the company, before the shadows swallowed him. It had all happened so fast, that Gildor barely realised what was taking place before it was all over, and the silent gloom of the woods closed in about their reduced party. 

They had waited for what seemed like hours before Aikanaro reappeared, on foot, looking vaguely green. "I had to destroy Iavas," he told them, obviously upset. Gildor knew he'd helped to rear the animal from a colt. "One of those cursed huge spiders caught him . . . ," he obviously couldn't continue, but it was not necessary. Of all the dangerous denizens of Mirkwood, the spiders were probably the best known, and most feared. They were a main reason visitors dared not stray from the path. 

"Where is Haldir?" Gildor spoke up when no one else asked the question. 

"Haldir?" Aikanaro looked confused. "Is he not with you?" 

"He went after you," Valandil replied, looking past his son's shoulder into the dark of the wood. It was useless--even Elvish eyes could see little in that gloom. 

"We cannot venture in after him," Tuor said, seeing Gildor's expression. "We would possibly never find the path again, or become separated and fall into danger." 

"But, is Haldir not in danger then?" Gildor rarely questioned his leader's words, but he had felt a pressure building in his chest since Haldir disappeared, and it now felt as if it was smothering him. 

"He is of the Galadrim, and long accustomed to traveling these woods. I am certain he will catch up with us." 

"Catch us up? Then you mean to go on?" Gildor could scarce believe it, but Tuor was acting as if it was the only sensible plan. Valandil looked uneasy, and his eyes still scanned the forest, but he offered no demure. 

Tuor did not bother to acknowledge Gildor's outburst. "Your mare is sturdy enough to carry two," was his only comment, and Aikanaro immediately jumped up behind Gildor, as Tuor and Valandil resumed their progress down the path. Gildor held his reigns limply, however, remaining in place with a feeling of unreality settling on him. They could not be serious--even a Galadrim would surely be in peril alone in the Mirkwood night? 

"You do not think you will miss his help, if something should befall him and we need to take the hidden mountain passes home?" Gildor knew that his tone, far less respectful than he usually used, and the fact that he had not immediately followed the unspoken command to continue, were playing with fire, but he suddenly did not care. 

Tuor swung his horse's nose back to face him, his face unconcerned, but Gildor saw a strange light in his eyes. It almost looked like . . . triumph. "He was recommended by Celeborn himself, as being the finest of the guards of Lorien," the words were respectful, but the tone was not. "However, if you doubt his abilities, young one, feel free to wait here for him. Your absence will hardly be a loss to the mission." 

Gildor, feeling almost as if he was watching someone else, slowly slid from his horse. Aikanaro sat staring at him. "Don't be a fool, Gildor," he hissed, and held out his arm to help his companion remount. 

"I will wait." Gildor said, crossing his arms and glaring at Tuor. 

"I told you bringing him was a mistake," was all Tuor said, and that to Valandil, before turning his horse about and galloping off. 

Valandil motioned his son to follow, but he rode back to Gildor, looking down on him with a mixture of concern and exasperation. "It is as Tuor says, Gildor, your friend can surely take care of himself. You, however, are young and inexperienced. Staying here on your own is folly. Now come, you may ride with me." 

"I'm staying," Gildor repeated. 

"Do not think I will fail to report this, when we return home," Valandil warned him. "Your conduct on this mission has so far been exemplary; do not cause yourself unnecessary harm by exhibiting such stubbornness now. Come with me." Gildor merely regarded his tutor levelly, his posture and expression answer enough. 

Valandil sighed. "You have your father's obstinacy, but not his good sense! Very well, if you are determined to do this thing, at least be wise enough to stay on the path. Wait here and Haldir will rejoin you eventually. Rendezvous with us as soon as you can; I will do what I can to allay Tuor's wrath. Fortunately for you, he has been in good spirits since we left Lorien." 

Gildor watched him go, marveling at the folly of those others called wise. Then he regarded the blackness of the forest all around him, and with a shiver he could not repress, stepped carefully off the path. They had already waited a long time; if Haldir was able, he should have returned already. 

Gildor had no idea how to even begin a search, especially in the gloom of a Mirkwood night. And it was early yet, meaning that the darkness would continue for hours. However, with all the dangers prowling the forest, he could not afford to wait until morning to begin, so he set off in the direction in which Haldir had disappeared. The trees, dense and feeling very old, closed in around him, cutting off almost immediately the faint glimmer of Ithil on the path. Plunging deeper into the wood, Gildor could only be thankful for his training at Imladris. He passed as silently as fog on the ground, his senses attuned to everything around him. There were only the usual night sounds at first--a tree frog somewhere nearby, the distant wail of a loon, and the scurry of a few insects startled by his passing. Within a few minutes, however, Gildor began to notice that a strange quiet seemed to have fallen over the wood; he paused, straining his ears and senses, but received nothing back. The trees were even silent or, if they spoke, he could not hear them. 

Passing onwards even more carefully, Gildor ignored his apprehension, sliding into the battle trance he had been taught that concentrated the senses while it suppressed distractions--like a rapidly beating heart and a coppery tang in his mouth caused by fear over what might be happening to Haldir. He had walked for perhaps half an hour in the unnatural stillness before he came to a little clearing on which Ithil's light fell dimly. It looked as if some type of fire had been responsible for opening the forest at this point, for charred stumps of trees still ringed the small area, and no grass or other vegetation covered the blackened ground. Gildor wondered if a campfire could have run out of control, but it seemed absurd; elves were careful to allow no cinders to remain that could harm the local vegetation, and who else would be in these woods? Besides, there were strange patterns on the ground that did not make Gildor think of a normal fire. 

The clearing itself did not hold his attention for long, for a slender figure reflected the moonlight back at him as it knelt in perusal of one of the larger scorch marks. On seeing it, Gildor felt such a flood of relief pass through him that it completely shattered his trance, and he was forced to stay still a moment until he had restored some type of control over his leaping emotions. "Haldir." He spoke softly, but the figure looked up immediately, eyes shining silver in Ithil's light, his bow in his hand in the time it took to blink. Then Gildor stepped further into the clearing, allowing the moonlight to illuminate him, and Haldir lowered his weapon. 

"Gwador. What are you doing here?" Haldir looked past him briefly before returning those beautiful eyes to him. "Did Aikanaro not rejoin you? I saw him head back in your direction some time ago." 

"He rejoined us. They went on." Gildor crossed the clearing, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. 

Haldir regarded him momentarily, his expression unreadable. "You came back for me? Why?" 

Gildor was not sure how to answer that question, so he ignored it, crouching down beside Haldir to look at a scorch mark. "These are strange markings, are they not? It does not look to me like a normal fire . . ." 

"There was nothing normal about it," Haldir replied shortly. "You took quite a risk, gwador, following me on your own. I am sure they trained you well at Imladris, but no one passes through Mirkwood at night lightly. And where," he added after Gildor remained noncommittal, "is that little mare of yours?" 

"Aikanaro took her." 

"You came after me ON FOOT?" Disbelief and something that looked rather like horror warred with each other on Haldir's face. 

"It was not a long walk . . .," seeing his companion's expression, Gildor swallowed and looked at the ground, waiting for the inevitable lecture. He'd had enough of them on this trip already, he thought tiredly, and was due for several more as soon as they caught up with Tuor and Valandil. Somehow, however, the idea of Haldir's displeasure was more difficult to take. 

It was with some, surprise, then, that he felt a gentle hand lift his chin and looked up to see kindness and something else in Haldir's eyes. The next second, a soft kiss was pressed to his lips and a golden warmth seemed to spread throughout his body, banishing the slight chill of the night. "Thank you," Haldir said quietly. 

Gildor could not put all that he felt into words--in fact, he found it impossible to speak at all--but his body seemed to know what to do. He reached for Haldir, pressing a passionate kiss on the other elf, trying to express all he felt at once--relief, yearning, gratitude, tenderness, adoration. Haldir lost his balance and sat back, but Gildor followed him, keeping contact and--finally--running his hands through that beautiful, Ithil kissed hair. He wasn't sure when Haldir began responding, but he somehow ended up on his back, a strong, warm body pressing him down, being kissed with a desire that matched his own. 

It ended all too soon, with Haldir suddenly breaking contact to look about them wildly. "Elbereth! I must be losing my mind." He looked at Gildor, and suddenly burst out laughing. "Oh, little one, if we weren't in Mirkwood in the middle of the night . . .," grabbing Gildor's hand, Haldir hauled him to his feet and, with an amused glint in his eyes, adjusted the other elf's rather disarrayed clothing. "But we are, and must, for the moment, be more cautious. Come, we need to catch up with the others." Gildor noticed Haldir's handsome black horse now, standing quietly at the edge of the clearing. Hopping up behind Haldir and holding securely to his waist, Gildor suddenly did not care that the others had been right and his help had not been needed; he was very glad he'd come, anyway. What was probably a very foolish looking grin spread over his features, but Gildor didn't care about that, either. For the first time since Lorien, he felt truly happy. 

* * *

"We've been deceived!" Glorfindel slammed the heavy door of Erestor's cell behind him and looked about for something to throw, but the bareness of the room gave him few options. 

Erestor looked up from the book he was perusing with an inquisitive expression. "You've found out something." 

"I have always admired your talent for stating the extremely obvious, Erestor!" 

"And I am overjoyed to have the intense happiness of a second visit from you in one day, but would appreciate your getting to the point. I was about to go to bed." 

"I've already told you the point--this whole thing was a set up from the first. It seems Thranduil needed something from Imladris, something he assumed, given the current relations between our two realms, would not be sent if asked for. So he didn't bother to ask! Instead, he sent Prince Legolas to lure it away." 

"Prince Legolas?" 

"Yes, your latest infatuation and Thranduil's youngest are one and the same." 

Erestor gave a snort of disbelief. "Ridiculous, the elfling was delivering wine. Has Thranduil become so poor that his son must work as a common labourer?" 

"Would you pay attention? He was sent there on purpose, Thranduil admitted as much! Legolas was under orders to get something--or, more accurately, someone." 

"And why in Arda would Thranduil need my assistance? I can assure you, he hasn't asked me about anything since I arrived; in truth, I've only seen him the one time, when he ordered me thrown in here. And, I might add, that was a VERY short conversation." 

"It wasn't you he wanted." 

"But you said Legolas . . ." 

"Was sent to entice someone to follow him here to Mirkwood, yes, but that someone was me." At Erestor's look of disbelief, Glorfindel went on. "Yes, Erestor, I was to be the original object for seduction, but apparently, after asking about a bit and some careful observation, the cagey elfling determined that you were an easier target. And that I would probably be sent along to rescue you, therefore solving the problem." 

"But . . . what . . . are you saying that Thranduil went to all this trouble, just to get you into his bed?" Erestor laughed in genuine amusement. "I think you rather overrate your charm, my dear Glorfindel." 

"My charms are not the issue," Glorfindel said, a thread of suspicion weaving its way through his mind. Why did Erestor not look more outraged at the idea of Legolas deceiving him? And why did he seem in such a better mood this evening? Was it just because Glorfindel had arrived, or something else? 

"Proven immune, has he?," Erestor murmured, clearly pleased, "Well, that must be a new experience for you." Glorfindel began thinking that perhaps throwing HIM against the wall was the solution to his need for release. Surely Elrond could find another advisor? And hopefully a less trying one. 

"Thranduil," Glorfindel tried again, after taking a steadying breath, "believes he has a problem which only I can address." He recalled the king's coolly sardonic gaze and silken tones when issuing his ultimatum, something akin to a chess master announcing checkmate after a particularly satisfying match. 

"Oh, and what could that possibly be?" 

In his mind Glorfindel saw images he hadn't thought of--at least not like this, in full color and sound--in two ages. In a flash there it was, and despite all effort to sustain his usual comforting amnesia, he was back, trapped in a burgeoning hell of midnight flame and ruby luminescence--and baked alive. "He is convinced he has a Balrog running loose in Mirkwood. And the price, dear Erestor, for your release, is that I hunt it down and kill it for him." 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: At King Thranduil's court 

"You don't like me, do you, seneschal?" Thranduil was examining his favourite falcon, a blue/grey creature with bright, black eyes, but Glorfindel could not help but feel that it was he who was under inspection. The bright morning sunshine illuminated the large, open field behind the palace where they stood, near Thranduil's extensive mews filled with gerfalcons, peregrines, and sparrow-hawks of all shapes and sizes. Hawking was a popular sport in Mirkwood, and the king had a collection of truly majestic birds, all trained to hunt as well as any warrior. The king's current pride was Balantaur, who truly seemed to believe that he deserved his name--he was as pompous as a king himself. Indeed, Glorfindel thought he saw something similar between the two, as Thranduil stroked his proud pet's sleek feathers. "Not that I blame you, of course, that was a nasty little trick I perpetrated, wasn't it? But then, I flatter myself that, in my position, you would have done the same." "I must differ with you there, your majesty." 

Thranduil looked up, and his glance was as keen as the sharp eyes of the bird he held. "Oh? But then, you are accustomed to living in safety, aren't you, seneschal? Residing at peace under the roof of one of Arda's most powerful elves. Oh yes, I don't like him, but I will concede the truth, even about my . . . " Thranduil broke off, although whether to release Balantaur or to avoid insulting Elrond in front of his servant, Glorfindel was not sure. It mattered little of course, as his meaning was plain enough. 

"Enemy? Lord Elrond does not consider you to be . . . " 

"Oh, I am sure he does not." Thranduil replied easily, shielding his eyes with his heavily gloved hand as he watched his favourite soar aloft. The latter was needed to insure that his hawk's talons did not do as much damage to its master as to its prey. "But, then, I am equally certain he would have found some very high sounding but firm way of saying no, had I requested your assistance in this matter." Thranduil glanced at Glorfindel, and that charming smile broke across his face once more. Glorfindel did not trust him any further than he could throw him, but even knowing everything that he did about Thranduil, he had to consciously force himself not to smile back. "Aren't you going to release Brinhalm? I believe she wishes to join her mate in the hunt." 

Glorfindel looked down in almost surprise at the large white bird shifting restlessly on his arm; he had almost forgotten it was there, despite its not inconsiderable weight. As he released the falcon to soar upwards, he told himself to keep his mind on business, rather than on the impressive figure of his companion. Thranduil was quite a distraction, however, although just why he was Glorfindel couldn't have said. The king's silver fair hair was drawn back by a simple tie at his neck, with none of the elaborate braids his station gave him the right to wear. His hawking attire was rich--jade green suede and crisp white linen, except for a few brown leather accessories like his glove--but no more so than any well off elf might have worn. A large emerald sparkled on one hand, but it, like the ruby the night before, was carved like a signet ring, and Thranduil wore no other jewelry--not even his circlet of office. Of course, Glorfindel thought with sardonic amusement, if wasn't as if he needed a badge to proclaim himself king. No one could be around him for more than a few seconds and not recognise that here was the master of Mirkwood. Perhaps that was his true charm--the air of command he wore so easily. 

"He cares for his own convenience, as do we all, of course, and it would certainly inconvenience him to lose a servant such as yourself." It took Glorfindel a few seconds to realise that Thranduil was still talking about Elrond. "Although I am sure he cares for you as well," he added, amused to see the angry glint that had come into Glorfindel's eyes. "I understand that; as a king, my people's well-being is my first responsibility also. So perhaps you can comprehend why I am concerned that whatever creature is wreaking havoc in my lands threatens those whose lives are my responsibility. I needed an expert to help with the problem; I knew where to find one; and I obtained his services in the most time and cost efficient manner possible. Most would say that was good stewardship, although I will, of course, understand if you should differ." Glorfindel had the distinct impression that Thranduil was laughing at him, but nothing but goodwill shone in those bright green eyes. 

"I would not dream of arguing the point, my Lord. It is, at this juncture, irrelevant." 

Thranduil clapped him on the back, warmly enough to almost send him staggering, but Glorfindel kept his balance. "I quite agree, but back to our original discussion. I will wager that you would have done the same as I under similar circumstances, but of course, you would never have to, would you? Vilya protects Imladris, as Nenya does Lorien. But we here in Mirkwood--closer to Mordor than any other Elven realm, and beset with many other dangers as well--have no such good fortune. Here we must rely on the keenness of our bowmen and whatever wisdom I have managed to acquire through the years, to fight or bargain our way out of difficulties. Other elves, who do not face the daily problems we do, find it possible to look down their noses at us. They say that we here in Mirkwood are too low minded, too venal, too base, to be true elves. They say "wood elves" in the same tone of voice some use to say dwarf or human, as if talking about something not kin." 

Glorfindel started, surprised to hear Thranduil own his and his people's reputation so bluntly. "They say of me--yes, seneschal, keep your fair words of diplomacy, I prefer plain speech--they say I am more dwarf than elf, and love gold and mithril and the jewels of the ground more than green things that grow. Yet does not the same ground that feeds the trees form the crystals the dwarfs so prize? Does flower's crimson shine brighter than that of ruby, or water run with a fairer light than sapphire? When will Imladris or Lorien need to pay such things to form alliances among men, or to buy off an enemy--both of which I have been forced to do in the past and may yet do again. If your Lord wore Vilya not, the treasures I accumulate so carefully might mean more to him than they do. We wood elves, too, fought and died in the Last Alliance." Although Thranduil did not say it openly, Glorfindel knew he was thinking of Oropher, his father, who had been one of those who fell in the great battle. His death formed a prime cause for the tension between the two realms as Thranduil still blamed Elrond, in part, for the tragedy. "We send aid when something threatens our people, but the same courtesy is not always extended to us." 

Thranduil looked skywards again as his hawk closed in on a fat partridge, which its mate had flushed out of the undergrowth. "Oh, well done! Are they not magnificent birds, seneschal?" 

Glorfindel murmured suitable compliments to the birds' prowess, and in truth, he was grateful to them for the reprieve. The force of Thranduil's words, when coupled with the king's vibrant personality and earnest expression, was enough to cloud even Glorfindel's usual clear head. But he was given little time to escape the spell the ruler of Mirkwood wove so well, for he turned back to him almost at once. 

"My people are dying, seneschal, because of whatever it is I have out there. Twelve, so far we have lost--those with homes on the outskirts of my realm--twelve who by rights should never have tasted death, and who looked to me for protection! And the danger draws closer every day, but my people have had no luck even in tracking it. In my place, speak truly, would you have acted so differently?" 

"Probably not." Suddenly, it seemed difficult to Glorfindel to justify animosity over the ruse used to trick him here, when such danger threatened. 

"Then you concede the point; I have won my bet." 

"But, no bet was made, your Majesty." 

"Ah, my dear Lord Glorfindel, did I not say, I will wager with you? You need to pay more attention--your debating skills have grown soft, serving a master who only wishes to hear his own thoughts echoed back to him. You should try working with someone who would value your advice, and heed it, too, in matters where your experience outweighs his own. But then, it is early days yet; we will speak of this again sometime. For the moment, let us resume discussion of your forfeit. Do you know," and Thranduil smiled charmingly at him once again, a devilish glint in his viridian gaze, "I rather think I have something in mind." Seeing Glorfindel's slightly widened eyes, the king's booming laughter echoed through the forest, startling even more birds from their perches and giving his falcons ample work to do. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: At King Thranduil's court 

"That's it, just a bit more, my lad, and we'll have it!" 

"Have what?" Glorfindel entered Erestor's cell alone--the guards had apparently been told to pass him through without escort--and he could only be glad of that fact considering the sight that met his gaze. Erestor's ample backside was sticking out of a hole in the ceiling, where one of the massive stones making up the cellblock had somehow been slid partially aside. He reminded Glorfindel of a plump rabbit that, as an elfling, he had once pursued while learning to hunt, only to have it duck into the bole of a tree seeking shelter. It had been too large for the small opening, however, and had just hung there, little rabbit feet scrabbling uselessly in the dirt, fat haunches twitching. He had laughed so hard at the sight that he couldn't shoot it. He felt a similar sensation now, which was just as well considering what Erestor was evidently trying to do. 

"Glorfindel, is that you?" Erestor's voice was muffled, but his feet began kicking excitedly. "Oh, good, you're just in time. Give us a hand, will you?" 

Glorfindel was sorely tempted, he really was, as the Valar only knew when such an opportunity would come his way again. His hand actually twitched for an instant, before he quashed his ignoble impulses and, grabbing hold of a small, satin slipper, gave a yank. Erestor tumbled out of the ceiling and back onto the bunk below, before bouncing onto the floor. 

"I meant for you to push me UP, you ridiculous elf," he sputtered, when he had righted himself. "Now we'll have to do this all again. Give me a hand up," he demanded, sweeping his dark braids from his eyes and clambering back onto the bunk. 

"A hand up to where?" Glorfindel asked, highly suspicious, although it was pretty obvious what was taking place. Legolas' bright head appeared a second later, peering down from above, and several mysteries were suddenly solved for Glorfindel. "Now I know why your mood suddenly improved yesterday--at the same time as the return of the prince from his travels. He must have visited you last night, when I assume you two hatched this plot?" 

"Lord Glorfindel, a pleasure to see you again," Legolas commented, with all the aplomb of one seated in state in the Great Hall, rather than hanging upside down from a hole in the ceiling. "Truly, I swear to you my Lord, I had no idea that father planned to keep Erestor in here. I was certain he would be treated well, as befits his station." 

"Yes, well, no hard feelings, young one," Erestor assured him, and Legolas beamed at him with his father's smile. Glorfindel sighed, seeing the sweetness of that expression. They were supposed to be improving relations with Mirkwood, but if Erestor proved true to form, the opposite seemed far more likely. "Glorfindel, your assistance if you please!" Erestor was still standing with his hand held out, looking as imperious as possible with his robes tied up about his waist. 

"But I do not please. Erestor, we have to talk." 

"Father got to him," Legolas told Erestor, tilting a head slightly to one side to get a better look at Glorfindel. "I told you this might happen." 

"Glorfindel!" Erestor looked furious. "Honestly, you are as bad as a child. To let a pretty pair of eyes charm you out of all sense of duty--and at your age!" 

Considering the reason they were in this mess to begin with, Glorfindel was rendered momentarily speechless at Erestor's temerity. He recovered fairly quickly, however. "No one has 'gotten' to me," he said caustically, as Legolas dropped gracefully into the room and perched on the bunk. "I did have a conversation with his majesty this morning, and I happen to agree with his reasoning. I do not approve of the methods he used to get me here, but I do think . . . " 

"I just cannot believe this!" Erestor looked perfectly outraged. "The elf deceives me into coming here, lures me into a trap, has those brutish guards of his truss me up like some deviant and drag me here, accuses me of something he knows perfectly well I didn't do, and throws me into this . . . this sty, leaving me to rot! And now, after one day--ONE DAY--in his company, you have suddenly become his loyal supporter! Yes, well, my dear Lord Glorfindel, you feel free to stay here and . . . socialize . . . with your new friend. I am going back to Imladris, and the first thing I shall do on arrival is to tell Elrond JUST what I think of the so-called help he sent me." 

Glorfindel leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, looking at Erestor's bristling figure with amusement. "And shall you also explain how you managed to get away so handily? Or, would you prefer for me to write to him, giving details of your, er, explorations into the art of wine production?" 

Erestor narrowed his snapping dark eyes. "Elrond and I do not have an exclusive relationship. If you really believe you're going to blackmail me . . . " 

"My dear Erestor, I wouldn't dream of it. However, if your relationship is as open as you say, it does beg the question of why, exactly, you listed the reason you did for your trip? Why not simply say, 'I've been captivated by the lovely son of your greatest enemy, Elrond, and although I am supposedly your advisor, I can assure you that my dalliance in Mirkwood will have absolutely NO effect on any counsel I might give in future.'" 

Legolas had been watching the rapid wordplay between the two of them with interest, his head swiveling back and forth as they spoke, but now he concentrated his attention on Glorfindel. "I think you should know that Lord Erestor has already planned to inform Lord Elrond of our relationship as soon as he returns. I am going to live at Imladris so that we may be together." This was said with a loving look for Erestor and one of haughty disdain for Glorfindel, he supposed for his appalling lack of faith in Legolas' beloved. Glorfindel refrained from rolling his eyes--the elfling was obviously in earnest--and instead concentrated on Erestor's sudden unease. 

"Oh, well, in that case, do forgive me, and please, won't both of you accept my heartiest congratulations? It is good to see Erestor finally able to settle down with just one person, rather than skipping lightly about after every pretty face who passes through. Yes," he smiled at the angry flush that darkened Erestor's cheeks. "I know Elrond will also be pleased at the news, and will join me in insuring that you two are very happy. Just think of it, bondmates for all eternity, never even looking at another elf as long as you live, finding all you need in each other's embrace . . . it is, truly, a beautiful picture." 

"Legolas," Erestor's voice sounded a bit strangled, but he did manage a smile. "Would you go check on the arrangements? We need to make sure that this delay will cause us no trouble." Legolas regarded the love of his life with slight suspicion--tragic, Glorfindel thought, how little trust there was in Arda these days--but left, bouncing up to the hole in the ceiling and disappearing through it with a dancer's grace. 

"I shall, of course, make all arrangements for the bonding," Glorfindel assured his rapidly purpling colleague. "It would be quite unfair, I think, to leave you to have to plan your own wedding . . . " 

"You are the most evil elf in Arda." 

"No, but you were rather lowering yourself, don't you think, teasing the poor elfling so? The child can't be much above his majority, Erestor; trifling with the affections of one so young, especially when you have every intention of throwing him over as soon as you pass Imladris' borders . . . well, it's hardly worthy of you." 

"He did the same, and worse, to me. At least I have no intention of having him thrown in prison!," Erestor commented, sitting sulkily on the cot. 

"He only did his father's bidding--and he must feel something for you, or you would not have been able to corrupt him so easily. In any case, you don't need to resort to such clumsy subterfuges. I've already arranged to have you moved to a guest suite upstairs. Thranduil agrees that, in light of the aid I am willing to provide him, it is the least he can do." 

"How very generous of him." Erestor looked sourly at his companion. "You have gone quite mad, you know. Chasing down a Balrog on purpose? I don't care how charming Thranduil is, you'd be better off to leave with me, now." 

"There's no Balrog, and you aren't going anywhere." Glorfindel smiled. "Really, Erestor, do you believe something like that could be loose in Mirkwood and not have burnt the whole place down by now? Forests aren't the usual haunts of fire demons for good reason." 

"But something is out there. Legolas told me there have been numerous unexplained fires, and the homes of some families on the edge of the kingdom have been completely destroyed." 

"Yes, but it isn't a Balrog that is causing the trouble--I would be willing to wager anything you like on that." 

Erestor laughed shortly, but looked less grim. "Wager? You've been around Thranduil too long already. Seriously, Glorfindel, be careful. That one acquired his reputation for a reason. Legolas says his word is good, but that you had better be very careful that you know what that word is. Make sure you understand exactly what you're getting into, if you make any agreements with him. He doesn't mind twisting words to get his way." 

Glorfindel smiled. "That, my dear Erestor, is exactly what I'm counting on." 

**TBC**


	4. 6-7

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Haldir had collapsed beneath Gildor, looking a bit overwhelmed, once perfect blond hair more than a little mussed, face a delicate shade of pink, eyes half closed and smiling from ear to ear. "You never cease to amaze, gwador," he murmured, drawing Gildor down to his chest. "But I think it may be awhile before I can . . .arrange things as I had planned." 

"Then let me." A wicked spark glowed in Gildor's brown eyes; a delightful mixture of provocation, warmth and pure mischief. 

Haldir's eyes opened fully at that, and his expression registered considerable surprise. "Are you sure . . . that is, I have no objection, but I wasn't certain if you . . . " 

"Oh, I think I can manage," Gildor said softly. 

Haldir did not hesitate, pulling Gildor into another long kiss and smiling against his lips when they came up for air. "I'm at your disposal." 

Gildor decided to take him literally. If this was his only chance to possess what he'd waited centuries for, then let it be something to remember for the long years ahead. He took the little tub of salve Haldir handed him from the nightstand, and looked it over carefully. Of course, in theory he knew what to do, but that was different from having practical experience. If Haldir noticed his hesitation, he said nothing, continuing to run light caresses down Gildor's back and smiling contentedly. 

Gildor decided he liked the scent of the light green lotion--it had a spicy undertone, but mostly smelled of open air and herbs grown under a summer sun. He scooped a small amount onto his fingers and thought back as best he could with the distraction of Haldir whispering naughty suggestions. It was not, Gildor reflected, part in amusement and part in sadness, at all an exact parallel to his only other experience. However, he thought, enthralled by the sight of the stunning golden body lying submissively under him, he did think he could manage. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: Somewhere in Mirkwood 

It had all happened so fast; but then, these things always did. They had ridden for several minutes in the direction of the path, passing through the dense, labyrinthine growth of trees and underbrush as quickly as possible. Perhaps they had been too relaxed, considering where they were, but Gildor doubted it would have made any difference. The spiders liked the night and moved with uncanny speed within it, and they had spent centuries learning every facet of the woods. The two elves found themselves surrounded before they realised it, a net of soft, sticky strands dropping suddenly from the overhanging trees, pulling them from the horse. Both had reacted immediately, drawing their bows, but their weapons became enmeshed in the billowing strands almost at once and were rendered useless. Seeing his bow pulled into the branches of a tree high over head, Gildor kept his knives in their sheathes on his belt as he waited for the strands to all descend; he was unwilling to lose them, too, and doubted they would have much effect on the encompassing web. 

A spider the size of a pony dropped from its lair in the trees almost on top of him; only the fact that he had begun to thrash about unpredictably allowed him to roll to his feet, sidestepping its reaching pincers. By doing so, however, he only became more securely enmeshed in the web, just as several slightly smaller creatures dropped into sight around him. Haldir's beautiful black stallion was stung by one of the larger spiders and dragged off with the help of several more. The arachnids then turned their attention to the last two victims, and rushed them all at once. 

Gildor lashed out with a knife in his one free hand, the other being trapped in the webbing, striking blindly at anything that moved. He knew in the back of his mind that it was hopeless, but he intended to take at least a few of the creatures with him. He glanced at his companion to see Haldir looking determined and utterly without fear, his face calm and still, his knives in his hands. The spiders seemed intelligent--at least they kept out of range of the daggers while more of the horrible creatures massed around them. Soon, Gildor knew, there would be so many that they could not all be fought off at once. Haldir spoke coolly in his ear. "You hold them off and I will try to cut us loose." Gildor nodded, jabbing at a spider, which skittered back out of range at the last minute so that his knife sliced only air. He did not want to cause Haldir to lose his concentration by talking to him, but he really wished he'd hurry. More spiders, in sizes ranging from dog or cat size to ones almost as big as a horse, were gathering all about them. How much longer they would fear his two little knives was debatable, but he did not think they had much time left. "I think I have loosened it enough that we may be able to break through, if we work together," Haldir hissed in his ear, after what felt like an eternity. "On my mark, push forward." He counted down, and they pulled simultaneously, attempting to tear through the silken strands. The web was as strong as rope, but it had an elastic quality that defeated their efforts; the threads stretched, but they did not break. 

They stopped struggling after a few moments, as another charge by the now frighteningly large group of spiders required deflection. Panting and exhausted, they rested back to back while the creatures regrouped, their black, cluster eyes staring at them with what looked to Gildor a great deal like hunger. Then, just as Gildor was certain they were doomed, something happened that he would remember in awe the rest of his life. 

A low, menacing rumble shook the ground under his feet and echoed through the trees. He looked up to see a predator of the most dangerous sort looming overhead, its glowing torchlit eyes straight out of a creche-tale, with leathery wings and scales that glittered like diamonds in the pale moonlight. So, some part of his mind that wasn't busy screaming remarked conversationally, that's a dragon, is it? He had no time to voice any inanities, however, as the next instant the forest erupted in a rush of sound and strange, crimson flame. There was a sudden, ear shattering boom and a flash of painfully brilliant light, just before a fireball came right at them. It was beautiful, Gildor thought, red and orange, with little green tongues of flame lapping at the edges . . . 

A hand jerked at his tunic, sending him sprawling onto the ground as the fire passed overhead, hitting a venerable old oak a few dozen feet behind him, causing it to explode in a cloud of burning bark and dried leaves. Gildor vaguely realised that the spiders were fleeing the area when several of them scurried past, within a foot of him, but they did not seem to even notice his existence in the urgency of their flight. He had no time to be thankful, however, as the dragon was on a rampage, devouring the larger spiders in a few gulps before beginning to pursue the smaller ones that darted in and out and up the trees in a vain attempt to escape. Haldir half pulled half dragged Gildor away from the area in the confusion, but before they had gone a dozen yards, he collapsed against a tree, clutching at it for support before sinking to the ground. 

Gildor quickly realised that at least one of the spiders must have stung Haldir, who was exhibiting all the symptoms of poisoning. Sweat poured off him, yet he was clammy to the touch, his usual pale skin drained of all colour to the point that even his lips looked white. "Go, get away--I'll be fine," he managed to say, as his eyes went glassy and he fought to maintain consciousness. 

"Of course you will," Gildor replied, rolling his eyes. Looping an arm about Haldir's waist, he dragged him further in what he hoped was the direction of the path. His sense of direction was usually excellent, but after everything that had happened, he was no longer certain of the way. However, anything had to be better than the place they had just been, from which sounds of carnage could still be heard. 

Gildor found his companion to be almost a dead weight and, after a few minutes of struggling through dense undergrowth, he stopped to rest where a clump of smaller trees ringed a huge old oak. Haldir dropped to the ground like a sack of sand as soon as Gildor was no longer supporting him. Rolling him over, Gildor was confronted with the disquieting sight of half-open, unseeing eyes in a dead white face. Deciding that he needed to ascertain his companion's injuries before dragging him further, Gildor hauled him into the hollowed out trunk of the huge tree, spreading his cloak on the ground in an attempt to soften the underlying roughness. He supported Haldir's head and managed to get him to take a few sips of miruvoir while he checked him for injuries. There was a nasty looking gash in his side that could have been made by one of the spider's pincers, but no other serious wounds. Gildor carefully removed his tunic, then used his knives to cut his shirt into bandages, which he wrapped around the wound. Under the circumstances, there wasn't much else he could do except hope that Haldir's natural healing abilities could overcome the venom. 

Having made his companion as comfortable as possible, Gildor sat beside him and tried to think. As terrifying as the dragon had been, it had mercifully scared away the spiders, but for how long? They must have nests somewhere nearby, for so many to have turned up so quickly. With considerable unease, he remembered the stories he had heard of them, such that they were like their smaller counterparts in habitually storing up food for lean times. Meaning that the two horses they had already taken that night would not satisfy them; as soon as they returned, he and Haldir were in serious danger, especially without their bows and with no horse to convey them quickly back to the path. That was, he thought, stifling an absurd urge to giggle, if the dragon didn't set them alight or eat them for dessert first. 

Normally, they would have run for it, but as long as Haldir remained unconscious, they were at a distinct disadvantage, for he weighed as much as Gildor himself, thus making any rapid progress while carrying him impossible. Besides, Gildor realised nervously, getting back to the path was hardly a smart move as long as the dragon remained in the area, as it would only make it easier for it to see them. He sighed. If running and fighting were both out of the question, then hiding, at least until morning, was the only option. 

All his well-developed instincts for danger were screaming at him, but he couldn't sit there mulling over options forever. Exiting cautiously from the hollow, Gildor quickly rounded up as much undergrowth as he could and arranged a camouflage in front of the opening as he had been taught. He then passed behind it, rejoining Haldir and scattering more branches behind him. He had no idea what other senses besides sight the creatures had, and could only hope that his work would be good enough to fool them. As he settled back beside his companion, Haldir began to move, arching his back and crying out indistinct, broken syllables. Gildor's blood ran cold at the thought of what would happen if he was heard; he darted a protective hand over Haldir's bandaged side, trying to hold him down so that he did not injure himself further, while at the same time attempting to calm him. He must be silent, or any chance they had of survival was gone. 

It was harder to control his companion's violent movements than Gildor had expected. At one point, Haldir's arms closed tightly around the Gildor's ribs, hard enough to force the breath from his lungs; then he recoiled, thrashing violently enough to lift him partly off the ground. Between spasms he moaned and muttered incoherently, while Gildor lay still and gasped for air, trying to summon strength for the next spasm. Finally, Gildor managed to find a position that seemed to calm him, sandwiching Haldir tightly between his own body and the inner trunk of the tree. 

Haldir looked completely different asleep, Gildor thought. Younger. Frailer. Hesitantly, he rubbed his cheek against the disheveled hair and found it as soft and fine as a baby's. His fingertips explored the pale upturned face, moving over the curve of his brow to the half closed eyelids with their thick gold tipped lashes and down the soft cheek. As his fingers passed over the pale throat, Gildor realised with concern that the heartbeat seemed very faint, and he clutched Haldir in sudden fear. 

"Please, Haldir, be well. I need your strength," Gildor said, hugging him desperately. "I need your experience and serenity, your confidence and calm. Please don't leave me." He brought his cheek down and tenderly laid it on Haldir's forehead, while continuing the murmured entreaty. He felt Haldir sigh, and he turned to bury his face in Gildor's neck. He was quiet for a time after that, then suddenly began to moan loudly as if in the grip of a nightmare. Gildor, inches away from those unseeing cobalt eyes, his hands already occupied holding Haldir in place, did the only thing he could think of to shut him up--he kissed him. It was either the best or worst thing he could have done--Gildor would debate that point with himself many times afterwards, and fail to come up with an acceptable answer. 

Haldir immediately deepened the kiss, tangling his hands in Gildor's hair and molding himself against him. Gildor tried to move away, afraid of causing further harm to his wound, but Haldir would not allow it, pulling him into a fierce, nearly brutal kiss. Before he fully knew what was happening, his shirt was open and Haldir's experienced hands were exploring his chest, sending new and unsettling vibrations through his body. He tried to tell himself that now was hardly the time for this, and to keep his attention on any possible threats from the forest, but when Haldir's mouth followed his hands Gildor's brain seemed to largely shut down. 

He never knew how Haldir managed it, for he could swear those talented hands never left his chest, but somehow he found his leggings around his ankles and Haldir sliding a hand between his thighs. Looking down into those still clouded eyes, Gildor tried once again to move away. He did not want Haldir to take him unknowing, uncaring who it was he pleasured. But his actions pulled another groan, this one of protest, from his companion, and Gildor quickly kissed him again, trembling from nervousness and growing desire as he did so. Haldir grasped Gildor behind the head and kissed him back with soft lips moving sensuously against his skin, a silky tongue twining around his, sucking and exploring with increasing ardor. The combination of the intimate little bower, his heightened emotional state from their near miss, and the sensuality of Haldir's movements soon had Gildor in such a state that he no longer cared about the possibilities of danger. 

Haldir reversed their positions, his body lithe and sinuous in its movements, until he pressed Gildir down into the blankets. The next few minutes were a confused muddle for Gildor, despite the many times he would later try to sort them out. He discovered both agony and bliss as Haldir claimed him, without the benefit of much preparation and with strength and passion. When it was over, Haldir almost immediately slipped back into insensibility with a soft sigh. Gildor ignored, as much as possible, his own extreme discomfort to curl up by his side and wait for dawn, a sense of loss and loneliness so deep it was overwhelming washing over him. He stared into the chilly night, eyes burning, breathing laboured, feeling like there was a heavy weight on his chest. 

Morning finally came, dawning with a thin, watery yellow light that was all that was able to penetrate Mirkwood's denseness. Haldir looked much improved, Gildor noticed; some colour had returned to his face with the dawn and his eyes were clear again, showing that he had been able to overcome most of the effects of the spider's venom. Gildor had not thought he would remember anything of the previous night's activities, but something must have registered or perhaps Gildor did not hide his agitation as well as he had hoped. 

"It happens. It is nothing to be distressed about," Haldir commented as they prepared to leave their makeshift camp. 

Gildor turned his tearstained face away and regarded the dawn, fighting for control. It? He thought wildly. What did that mean? Being ensnared by creatures out of a nightmare? Nearly getting cooked and eaten? A quick grope in a dark forest? For a moment he was overcome with emotions--shame, anger and that same, deadening sense of loss warred for supremacy. Anger won, and he was grateful for the strength it leant him, dissipating his near panic and flooding him with an icy calm. "Then I hope we can put it behind us." 

"Certainly," Haldir replied coolly, before striding off in the direction of the path. Gildor trailed in his wake, vowing never to bring up anything of that night's activities. It was a promise he kept for 500 years. 

* * *

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Gildor had learned that, in the midst of joy, there could be great pain. It was a lesson he had had plenty of time to mull over in the centuries of haunting loneliness, of aching, ceaseless craving that followed. He had not forgotten the lesson, but found that it was no longer enough to deter him. He put his hands on Haldir's hips and spread them open, running an unsteady finger over the small opening that was revealed. All his senses seemed heightened, magnifying every small sensation a thousand times. He groaned, grabbing onto the hips before him and pulling the other man back, burying himself completely in one smooth motion. 

The longing for intimacy now wracked him more than it had ever done, ironically just as he finally claimed his lover. Haldir was perfect--they fit together as if meant to be--but Gildor's desire was not quenched despite his rapid climax a few moments later. The physical was never all he had wanted, was not, even, the main thing. He wanted to scream that he loved and be told that he was loved in return. But Haldir didn't say it, had never said it. He had to give him that--there had never been any lies between them, except those he told himself. "Are you sure . . . you have never done that before?" Haldir gasped when he was once more able to speak. 

"No, never." 

"Then you have an incredible natural talent." He turned over, sweeping Gildor into a lingering kiss. "Just incredible." He smiled at Gildor's flushed face. "Give me a few moments and it will be your turn." 

Gildor melted into his companion's embrace, but his thoughts, for the first time that day, were far away. That morning in the forest, so long ago, he had decided that their affair must not continue because he didn't think he could survive being put aside afterwards. To have held and loved and be granted his greatest desire for a moment, then have it all torn away would be worse than anything he had previously felt. Yet he knew that was now inevitable, as soon as Haldir tired of him, which would probably not take long. Somehow, considering how long he had been expecting it, it almost came as a relief to feel his heart breaking. 

* * *

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Haldir knew something was wrong, but had no idea what it could be. Gildor had been perfect, everything was perfect, but the body he held in his arms was trembling in what was obviously an attempt not to cry. He was trying to think of a way to ask what was wrong without diminishing what had just happened between them, when the door to his room flew open and there stood his two miscreant brothers. He had no idea what Rumil and Orophin, who when he last saw them had been setting out on their usual duty patrol along the Northern Fences, could possibly be doing in Imladris, but it was just like them to show up at the worst possible time. Haldir was not, of course, embarrassed to be caught in bed with his lover--he had lost count of the number of times his brothers had done something similar to him in the past--but Gildor was already upset, and he worried how he would take it. 

Drawing Gildor into a closer embrace, Haldir glared at his brothers. "Yes?," he inquired frostily, "Was there something you needed?" 

"We should have known," Rumil told Orophin, a smile breaking out on his face. "Despite the fact that it's almost noon, never burst in on big brother. He'll always be with someone." Turning to Haldir, he smiled cheekily. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need a place to rest. The Lady Galadriel was in a tearing great hurry to get here and we've traveled all night. We're exhausted." 

Haldir felt Gildor flinch next to him, and struggled to keep his temper. "Is Imladris suddenly so short of rooms that it cannot house you elsewhere?," he inquired caustically. Orophin, at least, had the grace to look slightly abashed, and tugged at Rumil's sleeve. 

"We can find other accommodation, brother," he said, sending Gildor an apologetic smile. 

"Not as long as no one can find that lazy chatelaine," Rumil replied, stifling a huge yawn behind his hand, which still wore its riding glove. "I swear this house is in an uproar. Everyone hung over, even the servants, and no one can find this Erestor who is supposed to have the room list. So no one knows what rooms are available. And the Lady Galadriel has disappeared somewhere, so we can't even ask her." He flopped onto an oversized chair near the window and yawned again. "Not that she was in the sort of mood to make me want to anyway." He caught sight of Haldir's increasingly irritated expression and sighed. "Truly, brother, we will be no trouble. I for one, would not notice if you bedded every pretty face at Imladris; I just want to sleep!" 

Haldir was about to give Rumil a serious dressing down when Orophin suddenly started, looking at Gildor in surprise. Then he laughed, and shook his head in mock dismay. "You have my sincere apologies," he told him. "Although you have no cause to believe it, Rumil and I do not make a habit of constantly interfering in our brother's private affairs. And to interrupt you both a second time . . . well, I can only apologise and remove myself and my appallingly bad mannered brother. Come, Rumil, let us leave them in peace. We'll find a nice, quiet glade where you can nap." 

"A second time?," Rumil asked, sitting up and peering at Gildor in curiosity. Gildor clutched the sheets a little closer around him, but did not, Haldir noticed, look as confused as he himself was feeling. "Oh. I know you. Let me see," Rumil looked thoughtful, then suddenly laughed. "Oh, of course! Well, we do have bad timing brother," he agreed. 

Orophin smiled. "I believe that is what I used as a defense last time. Let us go, Rumil." 

"Last time?" Haldir was beginning to wonder if he had missed something important somewhere. As Orophin tugged a grinning Rumil out the door, Haldir turned to regard Gildor appraisingly. Something was familiar, he thought, but it skirted the edges of his consciousness, making it impossible to pin down. Gildor looked uncomfortable, but did not seem inclined to enlighten him, just clutched the sheet against his chest as if in need of comfort. That gesture stirred a distant memory, and suddenly, Haldir knew. He saw again the frightened elfling who had run from his talan all those years ago in Lorien, and wondered at himself that he had not known before. Of course, it had been a very disturbing week, he had been extremely drunk last night, and the elf beside him had changed somewhat from the timid young creature he remembered, but still . . . 

"Gildor," he said hesitantly, wondering if his companion's melancholy was due to his poor memory. It was, he supposed, possible that Gildor felt insulted, but then, it HAD been a very long time, and Haldir couldn't very well be expected to remember every elf with whom he'd ever flirted. Besides, Gildor could have mentioned it himself, if he considered it to be that important. Still, Haldir supposed he would have felt annoyed, at the least, had someone with whom he'd traded a few kisses and shared some rather harrowing adventures, forgotten his very existence when next they met! "Gildor, why didn't you remind me, that we had met before?" 

Gildor turned away, presenting Haldir with the view of a very nice shoulder, but depriving him of a chance to read his expression. "It isn't important." 

Haldir regarded him with mild annoyance. He wanted to remark that, if it was so unimportant, why then was Gildor so obviously upset? He refrained, however, instead thinking back to their previous meeting, and trying to come up with some reason why Gildor would be acting . . . well, almost hurt. Nothing important came to mind, however. There had been that time by the spring, of course, and he supposed he really shouldn't have teased him as he had, but he had been so sure Gildor would come out of hiding and join him. When he had discovered that the elfling had gone to bathe at the furthest point from Caras Galadhon, he had naturally assumed that it had been with the idea of Haldir following him to a place they could be alone and relatively free of any chance of interruption. He had taken Gildor's discarded clothing along, with the idea of returning it to him and of enjoying a most pleasant morning, but the elf had fled his very presence. Haldir had been forced to assume that his initial impression had been incorrect, and that Gildor was not attracted to him after all. Perhaps, he had thought at the time, there was someone special waiting back in Imladris, who he did not wish to betray. So, he had left the clothing and returned to the city, promising himself to keep his hands off Gildor in the future. 

He had kept that promise, he remembered now, insuring that their interaction on the trip to Mirkwood had stayed at a casual, friendly level. He had noticed Gildor watching him, but had done nothing about it. If the elfling decided he wanted anything from Haldir, he was perfectly capable of asking for it, or of indicating interest in no uncertain terms. Haldir would not take the initiative again until Gildor made it very plain what he wanted. 

Was that what he was upset about, Haldir now wondered, the fact that no relationship had been forthcoming? Perhaps he had thought that the one kiss they had shared in Mirkwood, after Gildor had made the incredibly brave, if unbelievably foolhardy, action of coming in after him, had been indication enough of his feelings. Still, Haldir thought in puzzlement, surely he could not fault him for failing to act on his impulses at the time? They had been in terrible danger, as was quickly demonstrated by the mess that had followed. They had barely gotten out of that alive, and then only due to the almost unbelievable coincidence of the dragon's fireball burning through the last of the spider's webbing. Haldir remembered with a repressed shudder just how close it had been; the gash in his side that cursed spider had given him had taken weeks to fully heal, the poison retarding his usual quick regenerative abilities. He had almost died that night, which he still only remembered as a haze of fever and pain; the next day, when he had thrown off at least the worst effects of it, Gildor had been remote and uncommunicative. 

At the time, Haldir had assumed that Gildor was just shaken up by their experiences. Certainly the events of that night were enough to disturb anyone, and it had been with no surprise that he had seen Gildor's pale face and haunted expression once morning came. However, the elf showed no signs of injury, and had agreed with him that it was best to put it behind them and move on--which they had, into even more trouble, Haldir remembered with wry amusement. That whole trip had been one long disaster, now that he came to think about it. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: Somewhere in Mirkwood 

They had finally found their way back to the path, but without a horse, it was going to take quite awhile to catch up to the others. Haldir was not, in truth, completely unhappy about that, as traveling with Tuor had been a bit of a strain. He had wished the elf would just make his move and be done with it, but instead, those calculating eyes had merely watched him, waiting for a vulnerable moment. Haldir much preferred to make his way with only Gildor as company, although he occasionally felt like laughing at the spectacle they made. Both had lost their bows and, in Gildor's case, a large part of his shirt had been sacrificed to provide Haldir's bandages. Gildor still wore the tattered remains of it, which his tunic largely concealed, but he had also managed to lose a boot in the scuffle, and so limped along as best he could with only the one. Haldir still felt weak and disoriented from the poison, not all of which had left his system, and he occasionally stumbled as they traveled on. What annoyed him most was that his new, beautiful leather vest was now scrap, as the spider's pincer had ripped right through it, as well as the tunic and shirt below. 

Still, his mood was actually fairly light that morning, for they had survived, and that was the main thing. Bows and vests could be replaced and, he consoled himself, at least no lasting damage had been done to either of them. There was also no reason to worry over the fate of the mission, as they had plenty of time to rendezvous with the others, who could not, in any case, make a move until Lord Glorfindel gave the signal. Knowing Glorfindel's reputation, Haldir would not have been at all surprised if diplomacy alone resulted in Lord Erestor's release, obviating the need for any flight through the mountains. At least, he would vastly prefer that outcome, having already had enough adventure for one trip. With that idea in mind, he pressed on as quickly as their condition would allow, as he did not wish to be anywhere near the spider's nest when darkness fell once more. Of course, distance would not help with the dragon, which could easily fly anywhere it chose, but he fervently hoped it would find enough sport among the spiders to keep it busy. In any event, while the sun shone, it, too, probably slept. 

The quickness of their journey allowed little time for discussion, and Haldir was too preoccupied with the sharp pain in his side to want to try to talk much. Gildor, too, seemed to prefer silence, but made no protest at the speed of their journey north. They did not pause even for lunch, as their provisions had been lost along with the horses, and it would take much time to hunt and prepare food, especially without their bows. Haldir himself felt little hunger, as the lingering poison in his system was making him nauseous. 

It was not until evening that they finally caught the team, which had made camp alongside the road. Lord Glorfindel had found them, and was speaking with Tuor and Valandil when they limped into camp. Gildor immediately collapsed by the fire, and after ascertaining that Aikanaro was attending to him, Haldir joined the tactical discussion going on. Glorfindel, strangely enough, seemed almost relieved to hear that a dragon was rampaging about Mirkwood. 

"You are certain--you saw it clearly?" 

Haldir quirked an eyebrow at him but refrained from his usual sarcasm. Anyone who could kill a Balrog was not a person to tease, no matter how long a day it had been. "We were as close to it as to that tree," he replied, indicating one growing just across the road. 

Glorfindel looked pleased. "I thought as much," he murmured, and the other elves exchanged uneasy glances. Glorfindel might find the idea of fighting a dragon appealing, but the rest of the party had definite reservations. Very few elves who had encountered one had lived to tell about it, and most made avoiding the creatures a top priority. As Glorfindel explained, however, there was no such option at the moment. It would be beyond all honour to leave the elves of Mirkwood to face such a threat alone. Tuor was the only one who did not seem to share that opinion. 

"Forgive me, my Lord," he said respectfully, "but Lord Elrond sent us here to rescue Lord Erestor, not to hunt dragons. Surely, if the king has now moved him out of the dungeons, there is no reason why he cannot be smuggled out of the palace. Then you may leave the rest to us." 

Glorfindel regarded Tuor with a pleasant expression. "You think that would be best, do you?," he murmured, and Haldir felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise. He controlled an instinctive reaction to back slowly away from the two of them, and, glancing at Valandil, saw the older elf twitch slightly. Tuor, apparently, noticed nothing. 

"Yes," Tuor said eagerly, pressing his advantage. "There must be a way of getting Lord Erestor past the front entrance; perhaps you could indicate to the king that he could be of use on the hunt, and have him ride out with you. We will conceal ourselves along the route you mean to take, and he can slowly begin to fall behind the main force. Then we can overpower the last few guards, free him, and ride for the mountains. If you could distract the king for an hour or two before making your own escape, it would help to give us a head start, but we can do without it if you do not wish to take the risk." 

At that, Haldir and Valandil both took a large step backwards, and Haldir held his breath. Glorfindel seemed pleased about something, however, and actually placed a casual arm about Tuor's shoulders. "You know," he said, smiling amiably, "I had a piece missing in my plans which you have helped to provide. I do most heartily thank you, my dear Tuor. Come, walk with me and tell me more of your intriguing plan." 

The two walked further up the road, near to where Glorfindel's white stallion waited to convey him back to the palace. Haldir heard Valandil sigh next to him, shaking his head slightly. But the elf walked away without comment, and Haldir likewise volunteered nothing. He had the definite impression, however, as he heard Glorfindel's delighted laughter ring out across the evening air, that he no longer had to worry about keeping an eye on Tuor. 

* * *

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Yes, Haldir decided now, that night had been the first time he noticed that something was wrong with Gildor. Glorfindel had returned to the palace, humming a happy tune, and Tuor joined them about the fire, shooting Haldir a triumphant glance as he did so. Haldir had not bothered to try to figure out what that was about, but instead approached Gildor and squatted down beside him. 

"Can you check my wound, gwador? I cannot see the full extent of it, as the wretched creature sliced open half my side." Aikanaro passed Gildor some bandages and a healing salve, which felt wonderfully cool on Haldir's skin and took the worst edge off the pain. It had not been until he was bandaged and sitting beside Gildor that he realised the young one was still saying virtually nothing. Gildor had remained quiet as they ate, and ignored Haldir's few attempts at humour. He had put it down to exhaustion and applied himself to the excellent meal Aikanaro had put together, feeling hungry for the first time since their ordeal. Gildor curled up near the fire with his back to Haldir soon thereafter, and fell into a fitful sleep. 

Haldir distinctly remembered now that the elfling had awoken the whole party halfway through the night, screaming something incoherent. Haldir had tried to pull him into his arms to comfort him, but Gildor shied away, eyes big and fearful in the glow from the fire's embers. Haldir had tried to sooth him, assuring him that Valandil, who was on watch, would not allow any danger to come upon them unawares, but it had not seemed to help. Aikanaro had given Gildor some Miruvoir and, eventually, everyone went back to sleep. But Haldir had lain awake for some time, watching the tangled brown curls of the elf huddled into a ball on the far side of the fire, and wondered what he had missed. It was, he thought as Gildor remained turned away from him now, a very familiar feeling. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's Court 

Erestor was incredibly bored. This was almost worse than those seemingly endless weeks in lock up. At least then he had been able to fantasize about what was going to happen to Thranduil when Glorfindel arrived. He had never suspected that his dear fellow counselor could possibly be so stupid as to actually fall for him. True, Thranduil charmed or otherwise subverted everyone he thought could be at all useful, but Erestor had thought Glorfindel would have more sense. So now here he was, surrounded by luxury in a beautiful suite of rooms, and left with absolutely nothing to do until Glorfindel dealt with whatever-it-was in the forest, assuming he managed to do so without getting himself incinerated--again. For which, undoubtedly, Elrond would blame him. 

Valar! Elrond. Erestor threw himself back on the huge bed and let an arm fall over his eyes. Elrond was going to kill him. Either that, or Glorfindel would have blackmail material for the next age. It was just too insane, that someone of his experience should now be saddled with a ridiculous elfling who kept looking at him through big, adoring eyes . . . he shuddered. Elrond could NEVER find out about this. Somehow, he had to get rid of Legolas before the elf followed him like some lovesick puppy all the way back to Imladris. 

He looked up to see the mischievous blue eyes of his latest conquest regarding him from the doorway. Legolas had, he saw gratefully, brought enough food to feed an army, and balanced the large tray with ease as he gracefully made his way over to the bed. His own dark eyes rueful, Erestor reflected that most elves would consider that they had been blessed by the gods with such a gift, for their was no doubting that Legolas was beautiful, almost cat-like in his lean muscular grace. Glorfindel's words echoed eerily in Erestor's brain, however, and he shuddered at the image they created. No, the elfling had to go. 

Erestor sighed and began eating, listening to Legolas' plans for their future with increasing dismay. How in Arda was he going to do this? He vowed, as Legolas lovingly fed him a few choice tidbits from the tray, never again to get involved with anyone under the age of 500 at least, and even then to make sure they understood the type of relationship he favoured. I really must tell him, he thought in distraction, as Legolas pushed the tray out of the way and snuggled up against him. Yes, and he would, too, he promised, but maybe . . . tomorrow . . . 

**TBC**


	5. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sappy little look at Haldir and Gildor's relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have asked, OLAS is Of Leaf and Shadow, (<http://www.annonvahai.org/>) a very nice Haldir shrine that hosts  
> fic, images, and other good things. It and Forgotten Hero (<http://www.trinitycross.net/lotrhaldir/>) are both great places for Haldir info.; go check them out.

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

The beech wood liked the mobile one. He was one of the first ones, and had long been resident under the trees. It had been but a sapling when he first came to Imladris, and it had recognised that he was little more than such himself. They had grown up together; as it stretched its arms toward the sky, he had played under its branches, or climbed them with other saplings of his kind, but had been careful not to break any of its twigs or rip away its leaves. Of course, most of the first ones were careful, but their saplings, well, they could be thoughtless sometimes. 

As he grew older, this one was often away somewhere. The beech wood didn't really understand the concept of away, but it had heard the first ones talking and knew it meant beyond-what-could-be-seen. He would come back, however, from time to time, and sit again under its spreading leaves. Sometimes they would talk, others times not, but the beech wood always liked having this one near. He had good roots, as the trees said. 

But today, there was some problem with the mobile one, who sat against its bark but did not speak. The beech sent several queries along its trunk, and echoed them in its swaying branches, asking what was wrong. But the mobile one sat unhearing. The beech wood decided to ask the ash, which always boasted that it understand the mobile ones better than the other trees. 

"Is it perhaps that he is diseased," the beech wood asked, remembering with a shudder the only time it had not felt like speaking, when that awful rot had attacked its roots several cycles back. The mobile one felt different than usual, deader inside, as if parts of him had also begun to rot. When the beech wood had had this problem, however, some of the mobile ones had come and poured a strange liquid around its base, and slowly, it had recovered. It wondered now if they had any more of the substance; perhaps this one could use some. 

The ash seemed to ponder the point, slowly as was its fashion. It considered the beech wood too quick to decide things, and often said so. "Perhaps," it finally said. "Although, he may be in need of watering, for look, he leaks rain." 

The beech wood considered this. It was true. It had never seen one of the first ones do that before, so it could not be normal. "But why should he need water? Just this morning, the rains came." The beech wood had lost a few of its older branches in the storm, but neither it nor any of the other trees had been seriously harmed. The rains had felt good, and already the water coursed through its wood, helping new leaves to sprout. 

A willow joined the conversation now. "I once heard it said, that when the mobile ones are sad, they make rain for themselves, as this one does now." 

"Who said?," the beech wood asked, somewhat surprised that it had never heard this, too. 

"A burrowing creature told me," the willow replied. 

The beech wood considered this. It did not usually pay attention to the rumours the burrowing things told, for they were not always reliable. "But what sadness can he have," the beech wood asked when the trees had all pondered this new concept fully. "For the rains came this morning, and now the sun shines." It was agreed that this was true. It was, in fact, a glorious day, with a great deal of bright sunlight causing all their leaves to open fully and lift even more skyward. The ground felt good as well, being still damp with moisture, and the river flowed faster than normal, gushing happily over its rocks. Small creatures scampered about, looking for berries, and a nest of the flying ones in the beech wood's branches were happily reporting that there were many crawling things that the rain had washed up. So many that the flying things' small ones were refusing any more to eat. 

Yes, it was, indeed, a good day. The beech wood thought about this for a time, until the sounds being made by the mobile one began to intrude on its thoughts. It was not speaking to the trees, nor did the sounds it was making seem like those it used to speak with other mobile ones. The sounds disturbed the beech wood, although why they did so, it could not have said. 

"I think that he is ill," it said once more, returning to its first line of thought. It remembered that, when it had been rotting, it took no joy in even beautiful days such as this. Some of the old trees that were no longer there, had reported feeling the same before the end. But this mobile one was not old, and besides, they did not die as trees did. The beech wood sent an inquiry down its trunk once more, but again, the mobile one did not respond. The beech wood thought about this. Then it asked the ash to explain things to the trees closer to the Great Burrow in which the mobile ones took shelter; they could tell one of the other first ones that one of them was ill. The first ones must have more of the liquid that had made the beech wood's roots come alive again. Maybe they could water the mobile one with it and he would feel better. 

The whisper ran through the treetops quietly, and the beech wood felt the vibration in its roots when one of the mobile ones heard it. This one, though, the beech wood did not know. Yet it realised, as the first one came closer, that he was tree-friend, for his murmurs were understandable to the beech wood. The tree-friend did not come close to the mobile one, however, but stayed farther away, under the shade cast by the willow. The beech wood waited for the tree-friend to bring the liquid, but he did not, so it sent a query to him through the willow. 

The willow took time to think about the request, but finally spoke to the tree-friend. "The beech wood says the mobile one rots at the roots. It says he needs the liquid that makes the rot go away. Will you bring it?" 

The beech wood asked the flying things to be quiet, so it could hear the tree friend's response. 

**He is not ill. He is sad. I have no potion that will make that better. __The tree-friend spoke quietly, but the beech heard the sound of his voice and wondered if, perhaps, he was not also ill. Usually, when the mobile ones spoke, their voices echoed with the joy of life and the happiness to be found in all living things. The song in their voices was like a gentle wind in the branches, or like the burbling of the brook now as it flowed quickly from the rain. But this one's voice did not convey those feelings. The beech wood thought about that.

It decided to be a little annoyed with the ash, which must have explained things badly to the trees near the Burrow. "You must tell the trees near the Great Burrow that they sent the wrong mobile one. This one is a stranger here and does not understand about the liquid that kills the rot. He may also be ill as well; I cannot tell. You must tell the trees by the Burrow to send another." 

The ash thought about this. It decided to be annoyed with the beech wood, for questioning its abilities to communicate with the mobile ones, and reminded the beech wood that it had stood when the beech wood was still but a sapling. "I knew you from a nut," it said, its branches quivering slightly, "and I have always said you are too hasty. You assume too much. Let the mobile ones alone and they will fix their own problems." 

The beech wood did not consider this. The ash probably had rot, too. Instead, it asked the flying ones to takes its request to the trees by the Great Burrow, and one of them flew off to do so. While it was gone, the tree-friend finally moved towards the mobile one, and sat down beside him under the beech wood's spreading branches. They did not talk in the language of the mobile ones; indeed, if they spoke at all, the beech wood could not hear them. 

It decided that they did not speak, for they were sitting right under its branches and it would have heard. It could hear even the crawling things wriggling through the earth in the ground around it, and the song of the flowers that grew in the grasses. No, they did not speak, but the tree-friend moved very close to the mobile one, and put his branches around it. This did not seem to help the mobile one, who only leaked more and made more of the disturbing sounds-that-were-not-speech. The beech wood tried itself to explain to the tree-friend the need for the liquid, but the tree-friend was now not talking either. 

The beech wood considered this. It decided that, whatever rot had afflicted the mobile one, must have spread to the tree-friend, who had also begun to leak slightly. This alarmed the beech wood, which did not at all like the idea that two of the mobile ones were now rotting beside it. It tried to draw its roots further down into the ground away from them. The beech wood was fond of the mobile one, but it had already had rot once and did not want to have it again. It sent another of the flying things to request aid from the burrow. 

Soon, the first flying thing returned and apologised to the beech wood for taking so much time. It told the beech wood that it had not been able to find the leader of the mobile ones, but had flown into the nest place of one of the leader's saplings. There it had found two of the mobile ones, but they had not been interested in listening, as they were busy mating. The flying thing had courteously waited for them to finish, but they took a very, very long time, and so it had finally decided to circle them singing until one of the mobile ones asked what it wanted. The flying thing had then explained that one of the mobile ones was rotting beside the beech wood, and the beech wood asked if some of the liquid used to cure rot could be brought so that the mobile one might be watered with it. The flying thing reported that the two mobile ones had not seemed to understand this. They had just looked at it for a while, and then gone back to mating. 

The beech wood considered this. It did not know how to make the request any clearer, as it seemed perfectly so already, but asked the flying thing to go back and try again. Meanwhile, it regarded with increasing alarm the two mobile ones underneath its branches, which were now speaking to each other in the language used by the mobile ones, but it did not sound the way it should. It sounded as if they were lamenting the fact that they had the rot, but the beech wood could not be sure as it did not understand very well the speech that the mobile ones used with each other. 

The flying thing returned with the second flying thing. They had met up in the nest room of the sapling of the leader of the Great Burrow. They reported that the sapling and its mate were now coming, but warned the beech wood that they were not pleased. The first flying thing explained that it had returned to the room with its nest brother to find that the two mobile ones were still mating. This seemed strange behaviour, as they had surely had enough time by now to finish and, considering that the beech wood had said to hurry, the flying things had not thought it wise to wait. 

The first flying thing had therefore landed on the nest and explained--very courteously, he assured the beech wood--that the two mobile ones were rotting much worse now, and badly needed to be watered. The sapling had then thrown something heavy at the flying thing, which had retreated to the entryway. The second flying thing assured the beech wood that the first flying thing had been very polite and in no way deserved the attack. The first flying thing explained now that it felt a debt to the beech wood, which had been a very good place for its nest and had always warned the flying ones if any danger approached them. As it very rarely asked for anything in return, the fling thing had not wanted to return with its mission unfulfilled yet again. So the two flying things had discussed the issue. 

They quickly decided--for the flying things decided everything quickly--that the sapling and the other mobile one had had more than enough mating time already, and must attend to the beech wood's request. They had noted that rain seemed to keep some of the creatures of the forest from mating, although it had never had that effect on the things that fly, but they decided to see if perhaps something similar might get the attention of the mobile ones. So they flew over to where a pretty bunch of flowers from the meadow resided in a small thing-that-holds-water. They picked up--with some difficulty, they informed the beech wood--the thing-that-holds-water, and carried it to the nest at which time they dropped it on the two mobile ones. 

"It did get their attention," the first flying thing informed the beech wood. 

"But they are not happy," the second flying thing announced. 

The beech wood considered this. It had no desire to make unhappy the sapling of the leader of the mobile ones, with whom the beech wood had had many pleasant conversations through the years. It also, however, did not want to have the two mobile ones continue to rot on its roots. It thanked the flying ones, which flew away to the top of its branches and began a conversation about the strange mating habits of the first ones. 

The beech wood checked on the two mobile ones that sat on the ground below its branches, only to find to its surprise that they had stopped leaking. They were making strange noises again, but they were somehow different than the other noises. It took the beech wood a moment to decide that they, too, were now mating. It considered this. 

The creatures of the forest did not mate when they were injured or hurt. So perhaps it had been wrong and the two mobile ones did not rot after all. It had no more time to consider this, for the sapling and one of the oldest of the first ones now appeared. It was true, the beech wood decided; the sapling did not look happy. The sapling had brought the liquid, however, the beech wood was glad to see. Indeed, he had brought a very large container of it, which he threw all over the two mobile ones. 

"Well, the beech assured us you needed watering," Elrohir said, and turning, stalked back to the house. 

"Do try not to upset the trees further," Glorfindel added over his shoulder as he hurried to catch up to his lover. 

"I think we should continue this conversation indoors," Haldir commented, wiping water out of his eyes. 

Gildor agreed, laughing, but stopped for a moment as they started to leave the glade. He ran back and put his hands on the beech. * _Thank you_ * 

**You no longer rot? __

**No, I no longer rot. __

The beech wood's leaves rustled slightly in pleasure. It would enjoy reminding the ash of this, the next time it boasted that it best understood the mobile ones.


	6. 9

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's court, Mirkwood 

Thranduil set the tone without saying a word. When Glorfindel reached his rooms, the king was wearing a rich velvet robe in a deep green that perfectly matched his eyes. It was loosely belted and, from the expanse of golden skin the open neck exposed, it seemed likely that he wore nothing else. 

"You wished to see me, your majesty?" 

Thranduil examined the rosy liquor in his glass and smiled appreciatively at it. "A special vintage just arrived. I thought you might care to sample it with me." 

Glorfindel obligingly took the glass held out to him. He appreciated the fact that the king was giving him the option to drink it and go--he felt no spell weaving insidiously about him like last time, and the door was still slightly open. There was also no talk of calling in debts as he had half expected; rather, Thranduil was quiet and pensive. 

"So, you have decided to release Lord Erestor when all this is done?" 

The king laughed, "Oh, I assure you, seneschal, should you slay a balrog for me, there is very little I would deny you. Of course," he reflected, "that would be true in any case." 

Well. Glorfindel drank some wine and wondered why he was hesitating. He'd been attracted to Thranduil since his arrival and, as his plans for the morning were already made, there was no real reason not to indulge himself. Possibly, he decided, he just resented being another check mark on Thranduil's tally sheet. The king had been toying with him from the first, so certain he would give in--as Glorfindel was sure everyone else always did. It galled him to think of giving Thranduil yet another conquest, even if by doing so he would achieve what he also desired. He wondered if there was anything Thranduil had ever wanted that his beauty, charm or fortune couldn't acquire for him. It was late, and perhaps time for some of the king's bluntness; he had, after all, said that he preferred plain speech. "Do you always get what you want, o king?" 

"No." Thranduil leaned against the fireplace, his eyes somber as they met Glorfindel's. "No, despite what you may think, I most assuredly do not. Sometimes I think that, on the contrary, the things I crave above all others are those denied me. I could not keep my father from dying, nor my wife. I obviously cannot keep my borders free of evil, or I would not have had to trick you here. And it has been a very long time since I have had anyone who belonged to me, and only to me." 

"Which I cannot." This new, contemplative Thranduil was oddly disturbing, and more compelling than his usual casual charisma. Surely, though, he couldn't really think he could persuade Glorfindel to betray Elrond? To change allegiance after so many centuries? 

"I could give you . . . well, whatever you wish, Lord Glorfindel, should you be willing to stay with me. Position you already have, true, but power? Wealth?" The king smiled at his slightly surprised expression. "I told you we would discuss this subject again." Glorfindel was reasonably sure he was not under a spell, but was nonetheless having trouble concentrating. Most of his attention was on that delicious throat and tantalising glimpse of chest revealed by Thranduil's robe. "No," the king was continuing, "I do not think such things would tempt you. So what would do it?" He stepped close and looked urgently into Glorfindel's slightly bemused blue eyes. "Tell me!" 

This close, Thranduil radiated a heat that seemed even warmer than the fire. Even more disquieting was the fact that he was absolutely sincere--either that, or he was the best actor Glorfindel had ever seen. "Nothing could convince me to betray my vow, to serve Elrond's family for all time," he replied, wondering that he should even have to say such a thing, but the disappointment in Thranduil's eyes showed that the king had truly meant his offer. For an instant, Glorfindel saw him as he really was, behind all the bluster and conviviality--and recognised a loneliness that matched his own. It was just a bit too much temptation to resist. "But then, I am not in Imladris now . . . " 

"And?" Thranduil's expression was, for once, unguarded, and the brief hope that flickered in his eyes was enough to decide the issue for Glorfindel. 

"I cannot give you my loyalty--that is already bespoken--but tonight is mine to do with as I wish." 

Thranduil smiled that beautiful smile. "Indeed. So, tell me then, seneschal, how do I tempt you to my bed?" 

Glorfindel allowed himself, for once, to return the smile, as he removed the glass from Thranduil's hand and set it on the mantle. "But, your majesty, you've been doing that since I arrived." It felt wonderful, Glorfindel thought hazily, when he finally allowed himself to do what he'd been aching for since that first glimpse of the contradictory, beautiful, exasperating creature who was King of Mirkwood, and captured his lips in a soft kiss. It did not stay soft long, for Thranduil reacted like a man dying of thirst when presented with a drink. His hands came up, one grabbing Glorfindel's shoulder, the other curling around the back of his neck, threading its way through his hair and pulling him close. The kiss went on, passionate and sweet, fiery and perfect. He tasted like spices, Glorfindel thought vaguely, cloves and cinnamon. 

At last they broke apart, Thranduil looking as flushed as he probably did himself. The king's eyes were glittering, gold and green, and without words he pressed Glorfindel back against the chaise behind them. Glorfindel was about to suggest a change of venue, when the king shrugged the robe from his shoulders and he forgot everything but running his hands down the broad chest in front of him. Thranduil pushed him down against the deep plush of the chaise, and Glorfindel arched up against his weight, relishing the heaviness, and the sheer, wonderful solidity of his body. 

And oh, he was so tight and so hot, and it had been so very, very long . . . 

Well, Elrond, he thought dazedly, some time later when Thranduil collapsed into his arms, how's that for improving relations? 

* * *

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Haldir stood under the willow and regarded Gildor's hunched form beside the beech tree some distance away. The elf had his legs drawn up to his chest and his cheek was against one knee. He was the picture of dejection and desolation, and Haldir had absolutely no idea why. After Rumil and Orophin left, Gildor had mumbled something and excused himself, Haldir assumed to visit the lavatory. When he didn't return, Haldir went looking for him, only to determine after a lengthy search that he was no longer in the house. He had been standing on the front porch, trying to think to where, and more importantly why, Gildor had run off, when the trees informed him of a sick elf in a glade a few minutes' walk from the house. He had investigated, and there was Gildor. His first question answered, it still remained to be determined what was wrong with his . . . whatever Gildor had become to him. Haldir wasn't sure about the answer to that himself, and decided to opt for "friend" at the moment. 

Haldir hesitated, not sure what would be the right approach to use. His usual calm competence had deserted him, and indeed, he was not at all sure he knew how to deal with this situation. He had, of course, had problems with lovers before, but most of the time he had at least known why: someone became jealous or possessive, someone else didn't like a comment he'd made . . . the usual. In this case, however, he had absolutely no idea why Gildor looked like his best friend had just died. Thinking back, Haldir realised that Gildor had had an air of sadness about him even during their love making, despite the fact that it had obviously pleased him. 

The willow interrupted his thoughts to explain something about Gildor being ill, but Haldir assured her it wasn't so. Whatever was bothering Gildor was obviously more emotional than physical, and standing under this annoyingly talkative tree all day wasn't going to discover what it was. Haldir almost went to him then, but paused when silent tears began to course down Gildor's cheeks. He was uncharacteristically shy of disturbing what was obviously meant to be a private moment, but could not stand to see Gildor so upset. 

The amount of concern he felt over the other's well-being brought him up short. He had, it seemed, known Gildor for a short time many years before, and they had shared a strange, but overall pleasant, last few days together, but why he felt so . . . involved . . . with the elf's welfare was inexplicable. It was also worrisome. Haldir hesitated as Gildor continued his passionate grief, his face contorted in an effort to staunch his tears. They were practically strangers, and it therefore made no sense that Haldir should feel as if his heart was being squeezed by a rough hand every time Gildor sobbed. First Elrond, now Gildor. What was happening to him in these last few days? He had spent centuries happily flitting from talan to talan, lover to lover, and never had his heart become ensnared. Sex was fun, it was a distraction for boring days, it was lighthearted . . . it was not supposed to result in feelings like this. In the past few weeks, Haldir had encountered more trouble because of his personal life than in all the centuries before, and it scared him. Was he just tiring of the chase? Was he ready--and he shuddered at the very thought--to "settle down" with one person forever? He had been ready to do as much for Elrond, had the elf wanted him, and now he was feeling quite involved in Gildor's melancholy, almost as if it were his own. This was not normal. 

Yet, he couldn't deny what he was feeling, and he couldn't stand there and just watch as Gildor sobbed his heart out. Haldir decided that he could come to terms with his own emotions later. The issue at hand was more important. Gathering up his courage, therefore, he approached the elf under the beech tree and settled alongside. It was almost as if Gildor didn't register his presence. Haldir could see that the muscles of Gildor's back were clenched tight, and tears trembled on the ends of his ridiculously long lashes. He was struck, suddenly, at the pure, uncomplicated beauty of him, so different than his usual conquests. There was no guile in him, Haldir knew; whatever questions he asked, Gildor would answer truthfully or not at all. Suddenly, the difficulty of approaching him seemed to evaporate, and Haldir enfolded him in his arms. Gildor made a small gesture of protest, but it was halfhearted at best, and Haldir was not one to be dissuaded so easily. He had come to talk, and talk they would, however long it might take. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's court, Mirkwood 

Erestor was deciding that there were worse things than being bored--much worse. In fact, he could definitely do with a little boredom right about now, he thought in considerable panic, as the huge dragon slowly approached the main palace entrance. It was big--much more so than he had expected--iridescent green and ugly, with a long snout from which protruded a frightening array of fangs. More upsetting than its appearance, however, was the spark of intelligence in those terrible yellow eyes, and Erestor couldn't help but recall all the stories he'd heard, which he had thought mere fiction at the time, about the cunning of dragons. Iluvatar, but he hoped this one was dumber than it looked! 

Almost everyone at court had been sent for safety to carefully disguised shelters in the forest, so cleverly made as to deceive even a dragon's sly intellect. Glorfindel and Thranduil had selected the few elves remaining in the area to be those least likely to panic. So what, Erestor wondered numbly, am I doing here? He was a lover, not a fighter, he thought desperately, as sweat slicked his hands and ran into his eyes. He kept tight hold of the main release for the gate anyway, but thought again how unnecessary it was. If Thranduil's magic was as great as the overbearing snob was always boasting, then surely it alone could guard the gate? Assuming the cagey creature ever made up its mind to actually pass through it, that was. 

Erestor tried to find Glorfindel's blond head, which had disappeared into the shadows of the courtyard a few minutes before, but it was quite impossible. The only thing visible from the tiny alcove into which he had been, pretty much forcibly, stuffed a very long half hour before, was a narrow strip of greensward bordered by a few trees. Oh, and a few thousand pounds of very suspicious looking dragon that was slowly creeping closer to his hiding spot. 

Curse it, he should not have been put into this position in the first place. He had supposed Glorfindel to have some type of plan in mind for dealing with the creature, but assumed that it would have to do with daring, heroic combat somewhere in the dim recesses of the forest, after which Glorfindel would come back, triumphantly bearing the thing's head on a pike. Or something like that. When he had ventured to mention as much the previous night, however, Glorfindel had merely looked at him in that so annoying way of his, one blond brow lifted over an amused blue eye, and offered to hold his weapons if Erestor wished to cover himself in glory, but remarked that he preferred to live through this particular combat. 

And so, here they all were. Or, at least, here Erestor was, waiting for Smaug, or whatever Glorfindel had said its name was, to make up its mind to accept Thranduil's dare to pit its magic against his. The king had farspoken the creature, offering it the opportunity to take all his treasure for itself--if it could get past the castle's defenses. Most of the elves would leave, and the castle doors would be left wide open; all Smaug had to do was help himself. Of course, the thing must know it was a trap--even an elfling not yet out of the creche would have discerned that--but the premise was that his greed and pride in his abilities would overcome good sense. Once inside the castle, he would be trapped with a combination of magic and more concrete means, and dealt with. Erestor had a very bad feeling about this. If dragons were that stupid, he thought grumpily, they would have been hunted to extinction centuries ago. He only hoped Glorfindel had a backup plan. 

"Why is he hesitating?" The voice at Erestor's side so startled him that he almost let go of the release mechanism. He managed to keep hold of it, but only barely, and turned to see who had been insane enough to sneak up on him. Legolas' bright head and worried blue eyes met his gaze. 

"Because he isn't stupid." Oh honestly, this was all he needed right now. "Legolas, perhaps you'd be, er, more comfortable elsewhere." He had almost said safer, but fortunately realised how that was likely to be taken by an elf of his age. 

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you. Something's been bothering me, and . . . " 

"Legolas, this really isn't the time." Erestor didn't think he could cope with any more protestations of undying affection, especially not with Smaug sizing up the castle entrance with that particular look in his eye. 

"But, Erestor . . . " 

"Later, Legolas, please!" Erestor could almost feel the dragon's fetid breath and see the little pinpoints of light, hot as flame, in its eyes. Elbereth! WHY had he ever left Imladris?" 

"All right, Erestor," Legolas executed one of those peculiarly balletic movements of his and was gone. Erestor had no time to feel relieved, however, for it was at that moment that Smaug finally made up his mind and attacked. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's court, Mirkwood 

Glorfindel watched as the dragon moved slowly towards the entrance gate, knowing that as many eyes were on him as on the beast itself. He had felt their puzzlement, and of course knew the cause. He could hardly fail to do so, for their whispers floated to him on the breeze. "How can he be relieved to face a dragon? Doesn't he know what they can do?" It had taken a good deal of self-control not to reply, yes, but I also know what they cannot. 

**A different terrain, craggy and mountainous instead of bright and green; a chill wind whipping through the passes, sounding like a banshee as it screams past, screaming a warning, a warning of what is coming . . . __

"I suppose he thinks it's better than the alternative." 

"I can't see how." 

**A horrible yet oddly beautiful mask, all molten gold and ruby fire, showing nothing of the decayed, perverted thing within. No, the form it takes is flagrant splendor, its glowing, amber eyes hypnotic, its voice a hiss, low and menacing, but with a liquid undercurrent that washes over him, almost a caress, telling him to step aside, to let it pass, to let it kill. __

"You've heard the stories of what happens to those who fight dragons? How they face cunning and stealth, hide as tough as the strongest mithril armour, and centuries of dirty tricks as well? And how only the greatest warriors have come back to tell of the combat?" 

"Yes, of course, that's what I'm saying--it is dangerous!" 

"So, tell me, what happens to someone who fights a balrog?" 

"What?" 

**The force of its fury breaks like a storm, violent, savage, as unconquerable as nature and as pitiless. Blood, pounding in ears; heart beating far too quickly; throat filled with ashes; pain, searing, awful, unending; yet, all around, snow falls thickly, covering the landscape in an icy veil, and behind, the sound of the family, his family, grows ever fainter as they escape, and then is lost completely in the swirling, lacy snow. And he knows, even as he falls, that he has won. __

"They die." 

* * *

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Gildor gave no outward sign of it, but he knew when Haldir appeared underneath the willow, just at the edge of his vision. He had always had some type of extra sense that told him when the elf was near--there was a frisson in the air and the day seemed to brighten. Even now, as depressed as he was, even though Haldir was partially the cause of that depression, it held true. He felt his heart begin to race with adrenaline as Haldir just stood there, watching him. He took a deep breath and then another, but they did not make him feel any better; by the time Haldir finally sat down beside him, Gildor had abandoned hope of bracing himself. It wouldn't work anyway; Haldir seemed to have a talent for getting past any defenses he tried to raise. Especially now, when everything they'd done was still fresh in his mind--every touch, every sigh--and he knew he'd relive it all a thousand times. What he would probably never be able to understand was how something so perfect could have meant so little? 

"You have become bored with me already, gwador?," Haldir asked, in that teasing way of his, but with a serious undertone. Gildor could almost have laughed at the choice of words, so well did they reflect his own thoughts. 

"You will go back to Lorien soon," he said, a bit of a non-sequiteur, but Haldir seemed to understand. 

"Eventually. Lord Celeborn may wish an escort when he returns, unless he and the Lady choose to travel together. I somehow do not think that will happen, however, so perhaps I shall accompany him. But what of you, gwador? Off on another mission, or will you stay here for a time? Imladris is beautiful, and I had thought you might have found amusement enough to persuade you to remain." 

Gildor kept his anguished gaze on the horizon rather than meeting Haldir's eyes, a difficult trick as the older elf had him quite successfully trapped in a tight embrace. He didn't want to see indifference, amused affection, or whatever Haldir was feeling; he already knew how little he meant to him. Having it confirmed that he was nothing more than a way of passing time was more than he could stand at the moment. "I don't know," he replied shortly, wondering how Haldir had found him, and how to best get away. He would blame himself for it later, he knew; any time with Haldir should be treasured, but it was at present nothing but torment. 

"Well, I had thought perhaps . . . ," Haldir seemed strangely hesitant, "that is, if you have just returned from a mission, as you say, surely you will be allowed some time for yourself before resuming your duties?" At Gildor's shrug, he continued. "So, if you like, you could always accompany me back to Lorien. It has been a long time since you saw the Golden Wood, and my brothers will be on rotation when they return, instead of constantly underfoot." 

"Return with you?" Gildor was so surprised that he twisted about and finally made eye contact. What he saw there amazed him. Haldir, usually so confident, to the point of cockiness, looked almost shy. "Why?" 

Haldir shrugged. "I don't know. For fun? For comradeship? Because we enjoy being together? I don't know what you want me to say." 

"Perhaps that I am more to you than . . . than Idril," Gildor didn't know why, out of all Haldir's conquests, the girl from the market stall should suddenly come to mind, but she would do as well for an example as any other. He somehow doubted she had meant anything more to Haldir than he did. 

"Idril?" Haldir looked genuinely puzzled for an instant, then he looked at Gildor as if he was out of his mind. "IDRIL? But she was . . . well, just a friend." 

"As I am a friend?" 

"No! I mean, of course you are my friend, at least, I hope you are," Haldir was regarding him a little doubtfully, "but you mean more to me than a . . . a casual fling." 

"Oh?," Gildor regarded him levelly. "When did you decide that? I thought I was good enough to bed when lost in a dark forest somewhere, or when bored, or when upset over Elrond's rejection, but not for anything else." Gildor couldn't believe he was saying these things, but his mouth seemed to be acting independently of his brain. "I know you have no respect for me, but I thought you respected yourself more than that." He tried to struggle out of Haldir's grip. "Just let me go and we can forget that any of this ever happened." 

"No." Haldir looked thunderstruck, but he wasn't letting go. Gildor could have forced the issue, but there was an expression dawning on his companion's face that he had never thought to see there. But when Haldir finally spoke, after what looked like quite an inner battle, it was not words of love, but rather the last thing Gildor had expected to hear. "What forest?" 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: King Thranduil's court, Mirkwood 

Smaug paused just at the threshold of the gate, a whispered word floating to him from somewhere nearby. He had known it was too easy, that these wicked elves were plotting something. No king would give up centuries of accumulated treasure to buy peace, at least, not without a fight first. And now he knew. He'd been lured here, expecting to face opposition, to teach these prideful elves just what a dragon in its prime could do, but he had never anticipated this. It was a word that had the power to turn even his stony heart to ice, and he whipped about, all senses attuned to the one threat before which even he would flee . . . 

He swirled, all wicked fangs and flashing eyes, yet with his wings half unfurled, ready to fly if a balrog was indeed in evidence. Then the portcullis above his head came crashing down, pinning him against the cold stone of the castle's forecourt, and an angry elf landed on his back and began to beat uselessly against his protective scales. 

"Curse it, Glorfindel . . . you know . . . how I hate . . . violence!"


	7. 10

Second Age, 3121: At King Thranduil's court 

"What is he doing?" Thranduil looked as dumbfounded as Glorfindel felt. 

"He's attacking a dragon," Glorfindel commented, while sprinting towards his evidently insane friend. 

"Why?," echoed after him. 

Because it is the last thing in Arda he should be doing, Glorfindel thought in complete exasperation as he sped across the courtyard from his place of concealment near the stairs. Erestor had always specialized in doing the unacceptable; why should today be any different? It was with little surprise that Glorfindel saw that he was too late. Before he had crossed even half of the distance between them, Smaug had thrown Erestor from his back. However, instead of ripping the elf in pieces as Glorfindel had feared, he simply placed a large paw on him, trapping him as a cat would a mouse. Erestor peered out from under at least a hundred pounds of dragon paw, and looked mournfully at Glorfindel. Smaug trailed one large claw gently around his prisoner's head, making a horrible scratching sound on the stones beneath. Glorfindel understood immediately and halted in his tracks. This complicated matters somewhat. 

"Well," Smaug drawled, looking pleased with himself despite his undignified position sprawled beneath the gate. "Unless you truly dislike this one, you will throw down your weapons and come closer; we need to have a little chat, elf." Glorfindel did as he was bid, but was careful to stay just out of Smaug's reach. "Perhaps we can come to an understanding, without the need for bloodshed," the dragon continued, while keeping up that annoying scritch-scratch around Erestor. "I can be reasonable; after all, I did not come for violence, but for the treasure I was promised." 

"And have yet to earn," Glorfindel reminded him. "The bet was for you to get around the king's magic, which you have not done." 

"True," Smaug seemed to consider this. "But, then, there are many ways around magic. One can overcome it by the exertion of one's own power or," and he attempted what Glorfindel assumed was meant to be a smile--it was not a very successful one, as it merely bared more fangs, "one can outsmart it. Tell me, elf, what odds do you give your friend's survival, should I decide to put a little more pressure on him?" Smaug must have increased the weight on Erestor some at that point, for the elf emitted a squeak and turned vaguely lavender. 

"Stop it, Smaug," Glorfindel warned him. "If you kill him, you'll never get out of here alive, you must know that." 

"Then we seem to be at something of an impasse, would you not agree? Because if you don't release me, and give me what I was promised, he dies--and rather painfully at that." He did, however, let up slightly on Erestor, which indicated to Glorfindel the possibility of bargaining. 

"King Thranduil does not want you in his realm. You have attacked his people and laid waste to entire areas of forest. If you release your captive and agree never again to enter these woods, we will let you retire from here in peace. Otherwise, there are a hundred elvish archers with arrows nocked, pointed at your head." 

Smaug laughed, a rolling boom that echoed across the forest like thunder. "Bravo! That was truly outstanding! I would applaud, but the dear little elf here might not enjoy the experience." He narrowed golden eyes at Glorfindel and tapped his claw on the ground within an inch of Erestor's nose. "Your archers are useless against my scales, as you well know." 

"We'll see. In any case, we can hold you here indefinitely. The gate alone is as nothing to you, but the magic with which the king has infused it will trap you for as long as he chooses. You will become rather hungry in time, Smaug." 

"In a great span of time, perhaps, elf. But my kind does not need to eat everyday, nor even every year! How long do you think your friend will hold out?" Smaug poked Erestor lightly in the side. "He seems a little stout for an elf, but that won't last long. So stop wasting my time. Do we bargain or no?" 

Thranduil had by now joined Glorfindel and was regarding Smaug with the same expression a careful housekeeper might bestow on an ugly bug that had slipped in under the door. "What do you want, Smaug?" 

"Ah, someone has decided to be sensible, I am glad to see. I want, of course, what I came for--the treasure." 

"And how, precisely, do you intend to carry it away? Or were you planning to become a permanent fixture?" Thranduil had crossed his arms and was glaring at Smaug, but Glorfindel felt a little trill run through him. The king was up to something. 

"Actually, I thought you could cart it off for me--so much easier that way. What else are all these elves of yours good for? Let us see," and Smaug drummed his fingers on the paving stones, causing Erestor to get a bit pummeled about. "I think we'll do it this way. You will send the treasure under guard to my cave in the mountains. I will take the little creature here with me, and as soon as payment is delivered, I will release him to your guards." 

"There will, of course, have to be a magical contract binding you to keep your word," Thranduil informed him haughtily. "Not that I don't trust you, Smaug . . . " 

The dragon grimaced theatrically. "You wound me, truly. Still, I see no real problem with such an agreement, as long as I formulate the wording." 

Thranduil looked pained, but there was that frisson again. Glorfindel managed to refrain from regarding the king with abject surprise, but just barely; he could not believe Thranduil would give up that much wealth to save the life of an elf he did not even like. "As you say. However, I insist that the contract include the release of Lord Erestor immediately, and that he not be taken from here. How do we know you won't grow hungry in the mountains?" 

"Even if I did, I could not break a magical contract, any more than you--the penalties are appalling. So why does it matter?" 

Thranduil shrugged. "He is delicate, and the journey might harm him. Look, already the strain shows," and Smaug bent his huge head to regard Erestor contemplatively. The elf's colour was not good and his breathing was laboured, bearing out Thranduil's words. Glorfindel could almost hear Smaug thinking that a dead captive would be of little use. "Very well, but you know the penalty for breaking your word. To the contract then." Smaug took a few minutes to think, and then, in an incongruously businesslike voice, he recited: "I, Smaug, agree to release the captive elf in my keeping, and to solemnly swear never again to enter the realm of Mirkwood for any reason whatever; in return, I am to be granted all treasure now residing in the castle of Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, to be delivered by him to a location of my choosing no later than one week hence." 

"Agreed," Thranduil said, "but I must add two things. First, my transportation crew are not to be injured--including becoming an afternoon snack for you." Smaug looked offended, but nodded. "Secondly, the one week will, of course, depend on the location of this cave of yours. If it is too far, I am to be granted sufficient extra time for transport." 

"It is a three day's march only," Smaug assured him, "but, just to show my sincerity, I grant you an extra week. Loading all that may take a while!" 

"Done." Two magical streams emanating from the bargainers met and merged, and the deal was complete. 

"If you wouldn't mind?," Smaug said, looking a trifle bored, now that the whole thing was over. He rolled his eyes in the direction of the gate. 

"Oh, yes, of course. Release him!" Thranduil's command had scarcely rung out before the great portcullis was lifted, and Smaug regained his footing, flexing his great wings experimentally to see if anything was broken. 

"In two weeks, King of Mirkwood," he reminded him, before stretching his wings and taking off in a surprisingly graceful motion, almost flattening the surrounding elves with the force of the wind he stirred up. 

Erestor remained, lying face down, until Glorfindel gently turned him over. "Are you all right?" 

"I slipped." 

"I know. It will be all right. Although," Glorfindel added, looking up at Thranduil, who appeared insufferably smug about something, "I would greatly like to know why the king was willing to part with so much treasure, to save the life of an Imladris' elf." 

Thranduil smirked. "Perhaps I am mellowing in my old age, or perhaps I have learned to appreciate the . . . charms . . . of some elves of that realm." 

Erestor struggled to his feet, looking somewhat the worse for wear. "My greatest thanks, o king," he commented, and executed a fairly passable bow, given the circumstances. 

Thranduil waved a casual hand. "Oh, think nothing of it. Although you may tell Lord Elrond that I expect to be reimbursed for my expenses; say, two strips of mithril?" 

Glorfindel's suspicions climbed even further. "Two strips, for all your treasure? Truly, the tales of Thranduil's great wealth were much exaggerated." 

Thranduil laughed. "Oh no, in fact, seneschal, you may find you were not told the half of it. However, as my people moved all of my treasure to the safety of our forest bowers last night, I think that should cover the few items that remain. I am afraid Smaug made a poor bargain, but he is now stuck with it, like it or no." 

Glorfindel just stared, then a slow smile began to take over his features. "You truly live up to your reputation, Thranduil of Mirkwood. I will almost be sorry for us to leave here. I have the feeling we could learn much of guile from you, among other things!" 

Thranduil suddenly became very still. "Leave? Oh, but seneschal, please recall that our deal was only in force if you killed a balrog. I do not believe that occurred, Lord Glorfindel, nor did I see you even slay a dragon." 

You have to give him credit, Glorfindel thought; he did meet his gaze. And, although the king flushed slightly, his eyes were resolute. "You would refuse to release Erestor, even though no evil haunts your realm?" 

"You misunderstand me," Thranduil replied, his expression so serious that any hope of this all being a joke was lost. "Lord Erestor may leave whenever he chooses--as long, that is, as you remain in his place." 

Glorfindel stepped closer to the king and lowered his voice, to the point, he hoped, that even Elvish ears could not hear him. "Don't do this." 

"You leave me no choice. I will not be left alone again, Glorfindel." 

"I will hate you for this." 

"For a time, perhaps," Thranduil acknowledged, "but for always? I do not think so." He stepped back a pace from Glorfindel and raised his voice. "I am glad you agree with me, Lord Glorfindel. You will be an ornament to my court." 

Glorfindel sighed. No matter how long he lived, it was always a disappointment to see people live down to expectations. "Very well, but I would beg a moment to say goodbye to my colleagues." 

"Of course. Take all the time you wish." Thranduil was not looking as self-satisfied as he might have done under the circumstances. Perhaps there is a conscience in there after all, Glorfindel mused. Too bad he couldn't spare the time to stay and find out. He could think of worse ways to pass a few centuries . . . 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: On the edge of Mirkwood 

Erestor had been brooding to the degree that he barely noticed when, after they had passed beyond the borders of the wood king's realm, Tuor threw off his hood and, instead of the haughty agent, there sat Glorfindel. Had he been thinking clearly, Erestor might have wondered before how Tuor had managed to control Glorfindel's white stallion, which was well known for throwing any other rider. He couldn't very well be expected to be logical after the day he'd had, however. 

"He dumped me!" 

"What?" Glorfindel looked a little bemused at Erestor's greeting. 

"Legolas! The little imp dumped me, for some milk toast elfling in his father's guards, can you believe it?" Erestor still couldn't. Never, in all his long years . . . well, that was certainly the last time he had anything to do with an elfling just entering fenneth! They were far too unreliable. 

"Well," Glorfindel couldn't resist pointing out, "That was what you wanted, wasn't it? To get rid of him?" 

"Yes, but . . . not like this! I have NEVER been just thrown over like that! He has no taste." Erestor tried to maintain his air of outraged dignity, but his heart really wasn't in it. Even while bemoaning the loss of his Mirkwood infatuation, his eyes were skimming over Aikanaro and Valandil's forms, so very alike and so enchanting, as they rode ahead. 

"Some of ours?," he murmured, thinking he'd seen them somewhere before. 

"Yes, two of Elrond's agents. Why?" 

"Oh, I was just thinking that, in between fighting orcs and wargs and whatever else lies between here and home, I'm going to need something to do." 

"But--they are father and son!" Erestor noticed with amusement that his friend looked rather shocked. Really, he could be such an old maid sometimes. 

"Why, Glorfindel, you surprise me. I was just thinking about teaching them a new card game I learned recently, from some of Thranduil's gaolers. It's called As Nas."* 

"Everyone knows that--we often play it at court." 

Erestor smiled. "My version is a little different. I call it, strip As Nas. Remind me to teach it to you sometime," and, spurring on his horse, he joined the agents, a broad smile on his face. 

* * *

Second Age, 3121: At King Thranduil's court 

Legolas followed his father into his chambers, still feeling a little guilty over cutting Erestor loose like that, but then, Almar was so very beautiful . . . " 

"What's this?" Thranduil was regarding a large bundle, which was squirming so as to almost fall off his chaise. It was wrapped in canvas, but had a large blue bow on top. A little card had been attached to the bow, which Thranduil took, an odd gleam coming into his eyes. Legolas gingerly unwrapped the package, but jumped when his father's great laugh suddenly reverberated around the room. Stripping away the last of the canvas, he was surprised to see a naked, bound and gagged elf sitting there, blue eyes flashing fire. For a minute he had thought it was Lord Glorfindel, as the elf was about the same height and shape, and had almost identical colouring, but after a moment he realised his mistake. His father shooed him from the chamber a moment later, but Legolas managed to surreptitiously scoop up the note, which had fluttered to the floor when Thranduil threw the elf over his shoulder and disappeared with him into the bedroom. 

Itching with curiosity, Legolas opened the small letter, and then had to quickly put a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle. Well, at least that explains why "Tuor" had been all muffled up when the party from Imladris left that afternoon. 

"My dear Thranduil, Being under orders to return as soon as possible to Imladris, I must take my leave of you, despite your gracious invitation to remain. However, remembering that you expressed a desire for someone who would belong only to you, I have taken the liberty of leaving a little present behind. Tuor is a bit feisty, but I am confident you can manage. My love, Glorfindel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * This was actually a popular card game in the Middle Ages. It usually had five players, but Erestor probably made do ;) It seems to have originated in Persia and is accepted as the forerunner of some of our modern poker games. 
> 

> 
> **TBC**


	8. 11

Third Age: 3018, The Road to Woodhall 

O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!  
We still remember, we who dwell  
In this land far beneath the trees,  
Thy starlight on the Western Seas. 

Gildor felt the presence of the small group of hobbits before he saw them, but intended to merely travel on with his party, leaving them to their business, until he noticed the last in line. Bilbo had asked him to keep an eye on his nephew whenever Gildor's business took him near the Shire, and he had become rather fond of the small creature over time, seeing in him a rare innocence. "Hail Frodo!," he cried. "You are abroad late. Or are you perhaps lost?" Then he called to the others and his company gathered around the travelers. 

"This is indeed wonderful!," they said. "Three hobbits in a wood at night! We have not seen such a thing since Bilbo went away. What is the meaning of it?" 

"The meaning of it, fair people," Frodo replied, "is simply that we seem to be going the same way as you are. I like walking under the stars. But I would welcome your company." 

Gildor thought that, if Frodo planned to make a career of deception, he would soon starve; a more transparent evasion he had never heard. He let his companions answer, therefore, while he watched the tiny creature carefully. 

"But we have no need of other company, and hobbits are so dull," they replied, laughing. "And how do you know that we go the same way as you, for you do not know wither we are going?" 

"And how do you know my name?," asked Frodo, and Gildor almost smiled. That was more like it. Any relative of Bilbo's should be able to take charge of a conversation--the Valar knew the old hobbit had almost talked Gildor's ears off at Imladris, more than once. 

Gildor felt more than saw his companions' questioning glances at him, asking, in effect, how much they should reveal. He made no reply, so, in the manner of elves, they prevaricated. "We know many things. We have seen you often before with Bilbo, though you may not have seen us." 

"Who are you, and who is your lord?", Frodo demanded, and Gildor answered while wondering how to draw the little creature out. He had no idea why Frodo, who he had last seen living a peaceful, if rather dull, existence in the Shire, should be walking abroad in the middle of the night, with a group of friends who jumped at every sound. "I am Gildor Inglorion of the House of Finrod. We are Exiles, and most of our kindred have long ago departed and we too are now only tarrying here a while, ere we return over the Great Sea. But some of our kinsfolk dwell still in peace in Rivendell. Come now Frodo, tell us what you are doing? For we see that there is some shadow of fear upon you." 

"O Wise People!," one of Frodo's companions interrupted as if he could contain himself no longer. "Tell us about the Black Riders!" 

Gildor felt as if an icy hand had clasped around his heart. Surely they could not mean the Nazgul? He and his companions had standing orders from Elrond to report any rumours of the Nine they heard, but surely, these hobbits must be referring to some other group. They had no reason to even have heard of Sauron's creatures. "Black Riders? Why do you ask about Black Riders?" 

The same hobbit answered, "Because two Black Riders have overtaken us today, or one has done so twice. Only a little while ago he slipped away as you drew near." 

Gildor gestured to his companions, who drew away from the sharp Hobbit ears, and spoke softly. "All of you know what Lord Elrond has always said about the Nazgul--that we are to report to him anything we might chance to hear about them. I would question these Hobbits further about that which they have seen." 

"And you really think it was one of the Nazgul which followed them?," Von asked skeptically. One of the older elves in the company, Von seemed to believe it to always be his responsibility to question every decision Gildor made, despite the fact that Elrond had named him leader. It would be annoying, except that Gildor had long passed the age where other's comments galled him. Except for one, he thought fondly, who was always able to get under his skin. Gildor reminded himself of his father's advice to always think every important concern through three times before making a decision, and he smiled at Von, a habit which never failed to madden the other elf. Von couldn't know it, but Gildor actually liked having him around; it certainly insured that he always remembered his father's words, rather than have a member of his company make him look the fool. 

"I do not know; from their description it could be almost anything, or anyone. But we will never know unless we investigate. Besides, I was also charged with observing this hobbit, and asked by Bilbo to keep him safe. Both goals are served by taking them with us for a time." The others agreed, and Gildor turned back to find the hobbits looking at them nervously. All except for one, a rather stout fellow with dark blond hair and huge hazel eyes, who was regarding Gildor as if he were some type of demi-god. Gildor found this somewhat unnerving--he was not accustomed to being an object of fascination--but chose to ignore it. "We will not speak of this here," he told the hobbits. "We think you had best come now with us. It is not our custom, but for this time we will take you on our road, and you shall lodge with us tonight, if you will." 

The hobbits seemed pleased, and Frodo even managed a passable elvish greeting that amused Gildor immensely. "Be careful friends! Speak no secrets! Here is a scholar in the ancient tongue," he smiled at Frodo in pleasure. "Bilbo was a good master. Hail, Elf-Friend!" Then he shepherded them towards Woodhall, where the elves had already planned to stop for the night under the ancient trees. 

The evening passed quickly, with the meal that followed the long walk highlighted by much laughter and song. Gildor managed to arrange a private conversation with Frodo after the repast when the hobbit's companions had fallen into much deserved rest, and satisfied himself that the riders pursuing them were almost certainly Nazgul. Gildor did not usually give advice, especially not to other than elf-kind, but in this case he made an exception. "Flee them!," he told Frodo earnestly. "Speak no words to them! They are deadly." He also advised Frodo in the strongest terms to proceed at once to Rivendell where he would be under Lord Elrond's protection. Gildor wished that he could accompany him on the way, but he and his companions were already charged with an important mission by Imladris' master, and could not wait. 

After their conversation, Gildor led Frodo to a bower alongside those of his friends where he could sleep safely, and returned to the fire, his thoughts troubled. He seated himself, watching as a pale, luminous moth circled the flames, dancing just beyond their reaching fingers, darting in and out of the flickering shadows on the grass. It was strangely metaphoric of the type of life he had long lived himself, and he could only hope Frodo would have as much success avoiding danger. 

After several moments, a movement caught Gildor's eye and he looked up, to discover that the sandy haired hobbit was awake, his eyes reflecting the firelight as they watched Gildor with a combination of awe and wonder. "I thought you slept, friend," Gildor commented in surprise, for this one had curled up at Frodo's feet early in the evening and not stirred again. 

"That I did, sir, for awhile anyways, but then I woke up again, I guess." The hobbit looked tired, so Gildor offered to lead him to a bower, but he declined. "If it's all the same to you, sir, I'll just stay here a while. I can see Mr. Frodo, and that's good enough for me." 

"You care for your friend," Gildor smiled. Such devotion was rare these days. 

"That I do, sir." The hobbit stared into the flames and sighed. The longing that briefly passed over his features might have gone unnoticed by another, even another elf, but Gildor had spent too many years in a similar state not to recognise it. The hobbit looked up, caught his eye, and blushed. Gildor managed to keep his expression neutral, and the creature was soon reassured. "Beggin' your pardon, sir, but . . . I was just wondering . . . did you mean what you said, about Mr. Frodo being in danger from those riders?" 

Gildor started to give a glib answer, but the depth of feeling in the hobbit's earnest hazel eyes stopped him. He had no doubts that this one would go wherever Frodo did, and he would therefore share the danger. Better that he knew the truth. "What is your name, master hobbit? For I dislike having a conversation with one to whom I have not been introduced." This last was said with a smile that calmed the apprehension that had flared in the hobbit's eyes at the thought that he might have offended his host. 

"Sam, sir, that is, Samwise Gamgee is my name, but everybody just calls me Sam." 

"You are a good friend to Frodo, Sam, I can see it when you look at him. You'll be going with him, then, wherever his road may lead?" 

"That I will, sir. I promised Gandalf not to leave him, and I won't! You can count on that." 

Gildor nodded. Unless he badly misread the signs, Sam meant exactly what he said. Gildor could only pray that Elbereth would watch over them both, but he could not shake the feeling that many difficulties lay in their path. "Then guard him well, and flee all signs of the riders, Sam. They are evil, and will harm him, and you, if they can. Stay off the main roads whenever you can, and be especially careful in darkness, for that is when their power is greatest." Gildor forced himself to say no more, for he had not spoken to Gandalf and, if the wizard was indeed meeting them as Frodo had said, he would no doubt resent interference in his business. Besides, where the Nine were concerned, what else was there to say? Knowing what they were would only terrify the hobbits and not improve their chances of eluding them. 

Sam nodded, looking thoughtful until his expression was overtaken by a massive yawn. Gildor laughed to see it, and pulled him away from the fire, leading him to a bower alongside Frodo and the others. Sam curled up at Frodo's side like a faithful puppy, looking at his friend adoringly before falling into sleep. Gildor regarded them with amused fondness before returning to his place by the fire. He was not tired, and preferred to watch himself this night, if there were indeed Nazgul about. 

The fire cracked and sparked as he added a bit more wood and settled once more before it, his mind largely on the puzzle of the hobbits and what could have brought them into opposition to the Nine. As time passed, however, he kept returning to the image of Sam and Frodo, curled up together as if two parts of one person. Gildor suddenly hoped very much that, whatever their errand might be, they would find their way safely through the dangers that almost certainly awaited them. They did so remind him of two other lovers . . . he prayed that their path to happiness would be easier and swifter. 

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Gildor jerked back, naked fear on his face as Haldir's question sunk in. If he had not been so consumed with dread, he could have evaded or made up a plausible sounding answer, but his reaction made it obvious that the comment had not been an idle one. Haldir's sharp blue eyes missed little, and they were as determined as Gildor had ever seen them as he asked again, "What forest, gwador?" 

Gildor tried to rise, flight the only thing on his mind, but strong arms held him captive. With no escape possible, he buried his face against Haldir's shoulder and prayed that he would let the question pass. He felt soft lips on his hair and gentle touches on his back, but he was not allowed to move away, and Gildor knew he would have to make some type of response. He tried to concentrate, to invent a believable explanation, but his actions had already betrayed him. So, over the next few minutes, he slowly poured out the story of what had happened all those years before. He explained it as dispassionately as possible, keeping his voice level and choosing his words as carefully as he could. Still, he told the truth, knowing that Haldir would wrench it from him eventually. He could not bring himself to look Haldir in the eyes, but felt him jerk spasmodically several times during the narrative. At last, it was done, and Gildor felt some better with the telling, a fact that surprised him. A few moments before, he would have given almost anything to avoid it, but now that it was over, he felt both relief and a strange sense of closure. Perhaps, he thought with mounting joy, they could put all this behind them . . . then he saw Haldir's expression, and all the fears of those lonely centuries came crashing back. 

Haldir looked appalled, and Gildor suddenly realised that, however difficult it had been for him to relive it all, it had taken equal courage for Haldir to listen. Just how much the effort had cost him was obvious. Like most mature elves, Haldir never showed any emotions except those he wished--his pride demanded perfect control. However, his normal calm was now completely shattered. The face Gildor loved more than any in Arda shone with tears, which Haldir must have shed silently as Gildor spoke, for he had heard nothing. His face was dead white, pain showed in his eyes and one hand clutched his stomach as if someone had just kicked him. The arm encircling Gildor's waist had gone limp, freeing him if he wished to go, but he did not move away. It was strange, that the memory of his own grief was far less painful to him than the sight of Haldir's evident distress. Gildor caught him in a strong embrace, wishing more than anything for the words to bring him peace. 

Third Age, 180: Imladris 

Haldir felt Gildor's arms go around him, but did not respond. He was completely stunned, unable to think, much less to react. He vaguely wondered how Gildor could stand even to touch him, but even that thought could not break through the horror that numbed his mind. Elbereth! He was . . . he was unclean . . . like one of the orcs who fell on each other at every opportunity! The First Born simply did not act thus. He would be an outcast among his people--no one would speak to him or own kinship with him. Nor should they; what he had done was simply unthinkable. It was vile, something even most men would scorn to do . . . Haldir would desperately have liked to deny the whole thing to himself, but there was no doubt of the sincerity in Gildor's words. And he had not wanted to tell him, had, Haldir suddenly understood, never intended to tell him. 

Haldir suddenly noticed that his head hurt, a vivid furious pain behind his temples. He lifted a shaking hand to his eyes and realised that he was crying, really sobbing, like some tiny elfling. Angrily, he ran his tunic sleeve across his face and fought to bring himself under some type of control, but it was useless. He was overcome with shame, deep and bitter and smothering, to the point that it was a struggle just to breathe. He could not accept that he had done . . . that . . . to one of the most gentle spirits he had ever known. 

Soft sounds came to his ears then, but in his current state it took Haldir a few minutes to understand that it was Gildor. He was not, as he had every right to be, cursing Haldir's name or muttering threats. Instead, and Haldir found this almost impossible to believe, he was murmuring soothing words of comfort and love, and his eyes were glistening. "Gildor," Haldir regarded him disbelievingly, "you cry for me?" It was impossible, yet there was no mistaking the expression in those deep brown eyes. Gildor was upset, but there was no rancor when he looked at Haldir, only distress over his companion's anguish. "Why?" 

"You should not . . . it was so long ago," Gildor seemed to be trying to find words that would make the pain go away, and having some difficulty. Haldir could not imagine why he was even trying. 

"How can you bear to . . . talk to me, to touch me?," Haldir asked in genuine bewilderment. "After what I did?" 

"But you did not know!," Gildor hugged him fiercely. "You were raving, almost unconscious from the poison. It wasn't you, not really--I always knew that." 

Haldir shook his head. The words were kind and, oh, how he would have liked to believe them, but there was no excuse for what had happened. None that he could offer Gildor, and none to give himself. The worst of all, Haldir thought grimly, was that his offensiveness had robbed him of any chance of having a real relationship for the first time in his life. He looked at Gildor now, making a great effort to disguise the naked longing that he knew probably shone from his eyes. He knew, now that it was too late, that he would never find another with a soul like Gildor's, with such a capacity to love, and to pardon. 

Haldir saw the forgiveness in his companion's gaze, and could only wonder at it. Would he have been able to do as much, were the pain his own? He honestly did not know. He gazed in amazement at the beauty that shone through Gildor's expression. Elbereth! How had he never seen it before? He must have been blind! How ironic, that now, when he finally knew to the marrow of his bones what he wanted, he also knew that he didn't deserve it. He shut his eyes to block out that fair face, and the searing pain that accompanied it. 

It was with complete surprise, then, that Haldir felt a soft touch on his lips. He kept his eyes closed, convinced that he must be losing his mind; perhaps grief of this magnitude triggered some type of defense mechanism; allowing you to believe, for an instant, that you had a chance at what you wanted most in all the world. But in this case, it was the one thing he could never hope to have, and he knew it. When a velvety tongue pressed against him, Haldir opened for it automatically, savouring the sensations for however long they lasted. It was not until he felt warm hands slowly undressing him that he opened his eyes and discovered that the illusion was real. 

Dawning wonder in his eyes, he saw Gildor toss his shirt aside to join his tunic in the grass. "What . . .Gildor, what are you doing?" Haldir sincerely had no idea. 

That beautiful blush Haldir had always loved stained Gildor's cheeks. "I thought . . . well, perhaps we could do it properly this time." He pressed something into Haldir's palm, and the blond elf looked down to see that it was his salve from the bedroom. "I think this would help," he commented, and the cheeky elf actually grinned at him. Haldir could think of absolutely nothing to say. 

"Unless you don't want to," Gildor looked suddenly afraid, and his blush increased. "I'm sorry," he said as Haldir continued to sit there, staring at him in dumbfounded wonder, "I suppose it was a stupid idea." His hands dropped from his own shirt, which he had been in the process of undoing, to clench together in his lap. The look of misery on his face was more than Haldir could bear. 

"No, no Gildor!" Haldir grabbed his hands and brought them to his lips, unclenching each one and pressing a kiss to the palms. He still could not put into words what he felt. All the glib phrases of his long career suddenly seemed trite, overused, and not nearly good enough for Gildor. Later, when his head was clear, he promised himself to compose a song--a whole scroll of songs--describing his love, and his disbelief that Gildor could still want him after everything that had happened between them. But, for the moment, words completely failed him. Action, however, he thought he could manage. If Gildor really wanted a new memory to wipe away the old, then he would have one--and one to remember. "Come here," and Haldir drew him close, kissing him gently, but with all the love he could not put into words. 

Gildor melted into his embrace, feeling so perfect against him that it was all Haldir could manage not to start weeping again. How could he not have known, as soon as he saw him, touched him? Marveling at his own blindness, Haldir saw a succession of images flit across his mind--Gildor at the archery contest, all childish angles and hot, determined eyes; Gildor in his talan, feeling so right in his arms; Gildor in the forest, never wavering as he faced a hoard of beasts frightening enough to make an experienced warrior blanch; Gildor on that long road back to Imladris, so quiet, so careful not to draw attention to himself, and yet, how often had Haldir's glance lingered on him? Since they met for a second time here, at Imladris, how easily he had captured Haldir once more! A few hours in his company and Haldir had been enchanted all over again. Perhaps, he thought now, he had not been quite so blind after all. 

Haldir finished undressing the precious creature before him, promising himself to swathe Gildor in the finest of everything as soon as possible. His father's fortune might actually prove useful for something, for a change, instead of just making he and his brothers look foolish among the Galadrim. What a time he would have, dressing this one as he deserved! Although, he thought wickedly as his companion was bared once more to his gaze, he really much preferred him this way. 

Taking his time, Haldir let his lips explore every part of the beautiful one who, for some inexplicable reason, had decided to give him a second chance. Determined not to disappoint, he drew on every piece of information, every skill obtained in a lifetime of giving and receiving pleasure, to delight his companion. It seemed to be working, for within a few minutes, Gildor was moaning softly and pleading for more. A warm, rich glow suffused his entire body, and, when Haldir nipped tenderly at one elegantly pointed ear, the sound he made sent a bolt of pleasure arching through them both. 

Haldir tried to turn Gildor over, but his companion stopped him. "No, I want to see you." Haldir nodded his understanding, suddenly unable to speak, and positioned Gildor as comfortably as possible. Taking much more time than usual, he very carefully inserted one finger, gently turning and stretching until he was absolutely sure Gildor was ready to accept a second. His own passion, held in check by the amount of concentration he had been focusing on his companion, was now threatening to overwhelm, but Haldir forced himself to wait. Spreading his lover's legs a little further, he finished opening him thoroughly, adding a third finger along with more lubricant. He wanted to be certain Gildor would be as much at ease as feasible given his lack of experience. He tried to ignore how the flesh felt around his fingers--tight and moist and slowly yielding--or the way Gildor moved under him, his passion building with Haldir's prolonged attentions. 

"Please, Haldir!," Gildor finally gasped out, "please . . . " 

Haldir had never been more grateful to hear anything in his life. He felt like he must explode at any moment, and only long practise had allowed him to complete the preparations properly. He tried to focus on something other than Gildor, all rosy pink and writhing beneath him, to stay calm enough not to rush things. He tried to concentrate on what the tree beside them was saying--was all the vegetation at Imladris so talkative?--but it did not help much and he finally gave up. He nonetheless slowly slid just inside his lover, taking the utmost care not to hurt him. Gildor made a moan, which Haldir assumed was of pain, and he somehow managed enough control to withdraw, only to have his companion glare at him. "Haldir! Now!" 

Haldir almost laughed with relief, love and the unaccustomed tone of command in Gildor's voice. Entering him again, he nonetheless took his time, although it was one of his greatest challenges; it had been a long time since he'd had a lover this tight, and he had almost forgotten how intense the sensation could be. He had never felt this way about any of his former companions, however, and he wanted to give Gildor as much pleasure as he could. The wait was worth it, for soon they were moving together in a rhythm so natural that it felt like they had done this a thousand times. 

Although Haldir drew the experience out as long as he could, he finished before he would have liked--clutching Gildor in his ardor as if he would never let him go. And I won't, he silently promised them both. A few seconds later, and Gildor finished as well, their passions mingling as their hearts had already done. Haldir was about to compliment his lover, assuming any words could possibly suffice, when an icy blast of water suddenly drenched them both. Haldir flipped over, too stunned and sated for immediate anger, only to find Elrohir glaring at him, an empty bucket in his hands. 

"Well, the beech assured us you needed watering," Elrohir commented, before turning and stalked off back to the house. 

Glorfindel gave the two of them an amused glance, quirking an eyebrow in that annoying way of his. "Do try not to upset the trees further," he requested politely, before hurrying off to catch his lover. 

"I think we should continue this conversation indoors," Haldir commented, wiping water out of his eyes and wondering if anything about Imladris would ever make sense. 

Gildor agreed, laughing, but stopped for a moment as they started to leave the glade. He ran back and put his hands on the beech for a few seconds before rejoining Haldir. 

"What was that all about?", Haldir asked, scooping up their clothes so they didn't have to streak through the corridors of Imladris. 

Gildor wrapped an arm about his lover's waist and the force of his smile made Haldir dizzy. "Just thanking a friend. Come on, race you to the baths!" 

Haldir watched him run off up the hill for a second, then gave a mental shrug. Oh well, he was certain they wouldn't be the first to ever race through the stately halls of Imladris sans clothing. In fact, after everything he'd learned about Elrond's house in the last few weeks, he wouldn't be surprised if it was an every day event. "Wait for me," he called to Gildor, laughing. "You aren't getting away that easily!"


	9. 12

Fourth Age, year 61 (Shire date September 21, 1482): The Shire 

The grave had been dug in mid-summer, and rose bushes planted around the newly turned earth. It had been beautiful throughout the months since, as it was soon covered over by a blanket of new green grass and crimson rose petals. Now, however, the first golden brown leaves of fall blew over the ground, forcing the bent old hobbit that tended it to have to keep a daily vigil to clear them away. He sat beside the grave now, as evening's shadows crept slowly over the little glade, and brushed aside a bright gold leaf. It reminded him of his wife's hair when she had been young, and was now reflected in that of one of his daughters. 

He had already had his own grave prepared, right beside that of his beloved and much mourned wife. Frankly, he was getting a bit irritated at the wait to join her. His joints pained him whenever he moved and he could no longer walk completely upright; neither could he kneel for the length of time needed to tend his garden, which had forced him to give it up the year before. His neighbour's little daughter had kindly brought him flowers every day that summer (for which he had rewarded her generously with treats) but it wasn't the same as when your own hands tended them. He sighed. He was 109 years old and felt every one of them, especially when autumn breezes blew chilly blasts beneath his door, causing him to already have to wear several extra layers and to huddle round the fire each night for warmth. He was not looking forward to an icy winter in the Shire, with no constructive work left to do. No, better that he join Rosie before then. 

He couldn't imagine what was taking so long. He had already put all his affairs in order and was perfectly willing to go. Indeed, he had thought that the cold he'd had a month back might have done it, but no; Elanor had come to nurse him and he hadn't had the heart to send her away. So he had recovered. His continued passable health was making him grumpy. Samwise Gamgee, seven times mayor of the Shire, was not accustomed to having his will thwarted. He had been such a successful mayor because he never let obstacles stand in his way. Others praised his fortitude, a fact that caused Sam no little amusement considering that the matters they viewed as insurmountable problems, seemed to him mere inconveniences. After all he had been through with Frodo, it took more than any Shire troubles to daunt him. 

Ah, Frodo. Sam settled back on the little bench he'd had installed beside Rosie's grave, and thought back to a face that--yes, he could admit it now--had been dearer to him even than hers. He had wanted to accompany Frodo across the Sea, when the sickness brought on by Shelob's bite did not fade, but had been forbidden. "You are needed here, Sam," Frodo had protested, his face contorted with pain, as it had been much of that year. "If Elbereth wills it, we shall see each other again someday," and Sam had hugged him fiercely and, reluctantly, let him go. Frodo had had to leave--there simply was no medicine in Arda that could cure him; even the elves had failed. And Sam knew that Rosie was counting on him, and there was so much to do in the Shire, and he did feel that he had been useful . . . 

At first, he had thought of Frodo every day, and agonized over his decision. But time passed and children and work intervened, and his time to think of his best friend became less: once or twice a week, then a few times a month, and, in recent years, only on Frodo's birthday, or when some casual mention brought him to mind. But this year had been different. Since Rosie's death, he had found himself thinking about Frodo more and more, and wondering again what might have been, had he chosen differently. 

He sighed and removed a brilliant red leaf from the grave with the tip of his cane. It was foolish to sit here, mooning over events that were now little more than ancient history to most of his kind. The events of the Last War were told as bedtime stories to children, and Frodo's and his adventures were no more real to them than any other fairy story. But oh, he remembered, and had taken to reading again of late the Red Book of Bilbo's adventures, in which Frodo had also inscribed the story of their own. It had all come flooding back, to the point that now, at the end of his life, he wondered if that year, that whole wonderful and terrible year, had not been the only time he had ever really lived. Strange, that thinking of Frodo made him want to live so badly, when he really needed to be thinking along other lines . . . 

Sam was so caught up in his memories that he failed to notice his visitor until the tall stranger seated himself on the bench. "Good evening, Sam." 

Sam squinted up at the grey cloaked figure--his eyesight was another thing that had been failing recently--and wondered why he was being addressed so familiarly. No one but Rosie and a few old friends had called him just Sam in more years than he could remember. "This is private land," he informed the stranger gruffly. The elf--for so Sam realised he must be when gracefully curved ears were revealed when he lowered his hood--looked at him in amusement but did not shift from the seat. 

"Oh, we will not tarry here long, although it is a pretty place." The stranger regarded the little grave, and the meadow and ring of trees surrounding it, with appreciation. "I was told you were a handy gardener." 

"Once, perhaps, but no more," Sam said testily, waving a gnarled hand under the stranger's nose. He had long ago got over his childish infatuation with elves, and did not appreciate one trespassing in his little glade, especially when he wanted to be alone. 

"Well, perhaps you will tend another garden elsewhere," the elf commented, while settling himself with the patience peculiar to his race, as if intending to allow himself to grow to the bench. 

"I have not seen an elf in these parts in many a year. What brings you here now, and do you have a name? I dislike conversing with someone who hasn't even introduced himself." For some reason, this irritable diatribe seemed to amuse the stranger, for he laughed in the silvery tones peculiar to elves, and the sound was so sweet that Sam almost forgot to be annoyed. 

"I recall saying much the same to you once," he answered, "so it is fitting that you should return the comment to me. I do apologize, Master Samwise, but I thought you might remember me. I am Gildor Inglorion, of the House of Finrod, and we have met before." 

Sam looked the elf over, from head to toe, and tried to think back. He was possibly telling the truth, for Sam could imagine no reason why he would lie, but his memory refused to cooperate and bring up the requested image. He recalled the meeting, but not the face. He sighed, so much seemed to be slipping away these days. "And why do you travel in the Shire, Master Gildor? For we almost never see elves anymore." 

Gildor smiled, and Sam felt warmth breaking over him like the sun on a summer's day. "Why, for you, of course, Sam. I would have come before, but some preparations had to be made. They are now complete, and I have been sent to fetch you." 

"Fetch me to where?," Sam demanded, and then continued on before the elf could speak. "I am not going anywhere. It has been many years since I last traveled, and besides, winter will be coming soon." He drew his heavy woolen shawl closer around him and thought once more about the long, cold months stretching ahead. It would be his first winter without Rosie . . . 

"I was told you might be difficult," Gildor commented, but his eyes were merry and his smile, if anything, broadened. He did not seem to be taking Sam's mood to heart, and it made the old hobbit all that much more exasperated. 

"I am sitting calmly on a bench, watching the dusk fall on my own land, not bothering a soul. I am not the one being difficult," he huffed. 

Gildor continued to regard him calmly. "You are not watching night fall, Samwise, and we both know it. You are sitting at your wife's graveside, and mourning all that could have been. While you should be pursuing what is yet possible." 

Samwise Gamgee, seven times mayor of the Shire and last of the Ringbearers still in Middle Earth, respected by all and feared by those few who had dared to cross him, had not been spoken to in such a manner in longer than he could remember. "Have a care, Master Gildor, for I am no elfling to be rebuked so! If I choose to sit by my Rosie's grave, what is it to you? You elves are famous for never meddling in the affairs of others, so go away! Leave me to the dusk and to whatever memories I choose to visit." 

Gildor just continued to regard him. Really, Sam thought, he did not recall him being nearly so aanoying. "I would, Sam, but then, Haldir would never forgive me, and I do not intend to make the whole voyage having to deal with one of his sulks. He pouts very prettily, but it does get a bit wearing on the nerves, after a year or two." 

"I care not what troubles you have with your friends, and . . . ," Sam stopped, thinking. Why did that name--Haldir--sound so familiar? Oh yes, he had it now--that arrogant elf from Lorien. He was rather proud of himself for remembering, actually. "Why should Haldir of Lorien have sent you to disturb my rest?" 

"Because he promised Lord Celeborn, who had promised the Lady Galadriel, who had promised the Ringbearer, to see to your safekeeping, once the business of your life was done. When we heard about your wife's death, and knew that your children were all married and happily living lives of their own, and that you had not been mayor for more than a decade, we knew the time had come. So, as I said, preparations were made, and here I am. Haldir awaits us at the Grey Havens." Gildor looked up at the stars, the first of which had just begun to emerge against the rapidly darkening sky. "My people have waited long to return over the Sea, and now the time is here. We exiles are departing Middle Earth one last time, and we are taking with us those whom we do not wish to leave behind. And that, Samwise--Elf-Friend, Ringbearer and hero of the Third Age-- includes you." 

Sam could only stare at Gildor, openmouthed. Could he possibly mean . . . but no. It must be an old hobbit's fancy, nothing more. "You make little sense, Master Gildor," he said, but his voice was weak with longing. He could suddenly see Frodo's face more clearly than he had for years, and it was not old and wizened like his, but young and strong, just as he had been before the war. A great rush of energy filled Sam, such as he had not known in many years. To be prepared for death and suddenly be granted life . . . to see Frodo again . . . it was all almost more than he could bear. 

"Oh, I think we understand one another," Gildor said, rising. "Come, Sam, you have packing to do. I am sure you will want to say goodbye tomorrow to all your many friends, but then we must be off. Our ship is waiting, and must not tarry." 

* * *

On September 22, 1482, by the reckoning of the Shire, Master Samwise Gamgee rode out from Bag End. He traveled to the Tower Hills and gave Bilbo's Red Book to Elanor, his daughter. He then passed the Towers, where he met a lone, dark-haired elf, and together they traveled to the Havens and from thence over the sea with a great company of elves. Thus did the last of the Ringbearers depart Middle Earth. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A special thank you to Ithilessar, Greenie, Matreya, Alex Cat, Celebrethil and any others who reviewed. Your encouragement was greatly appreciated, and helped me have the resolve to finish this.


End file.
